ULTIMATUM [066-066-4.9]

By: R. J. Pineiro

Synopsis:

Saddam Hussein is on the move again, but this time he is armed with
nuclear-tipped missiles. Purchased from a former Soviet republic, hidden
beneath the Iraqi sands, Saddam's new atomic arsenal points toward Tel
Aviv and Tehran. To say nothing of the additional war heads he is
smuggling into New York city and Washington, D.C. The tension is pushed
to the boiling point when Saddam's guns begin shooting down American
planes in the middle east. Aimed at provoking the second Gulf war, he
leaves President Clinton no choice but to respond. For Navy Lieutenant
Kevin "Crackers" Dalton, the conflict has become personal. Shot down
over Iraq while trying to avenge the death of his commander at the hands
of an Iraqi ace, he finds himself coupled with Khalela, a beautiful and
mysterious Mossad agent, and the band of Kurdish rebels she leads.
Together they will face death as they try to uncover Saddam's hidden
nuclear facility before the United States finds itself facing a deadly
ULTIMATUM.

Also by R. J. Pineiro

Siege of Lightning

A Tom Doherty Associates Book New York

Copyright @ 1994 by Rogelio J. Pineiro All rights reserved, including
the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

A Forge Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 175 Fifth Avenue
New York, N.Y. 10010

Design by Lynn Newmark

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Pineiro, R. J.
Ultimatum / R. J. Pineiro.

P. cm.

"A Tom Doherty Associates Book."

ISBN 0-312-85475-7

1. Persian Gulf War, 1991-Veterans-United States fiction. 2. United
States-Foreign relations-Iraq-Fiction. 3. Iraq-Foreign relations-United
States Fiction. 4. Intelligence service-United States-Fiction. 1. Title

PS3566.15215U48 1994

813'.54-dc2O 94-12923

First edition: September 1994

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my parents, Dora and Rogelio A. Pineiro. Thanks for your guidance,
your patience, and your love. Thanks for the memories. Although I've
never been good at saying it or showing it, I do love you both.

AND In loving memory of Dr. Manuel Valle, uncle, friend.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am especially indebted to my wife, Lory, for her eternal patience and
encouragement during the writing and rewriting of this novel. I am
indeed very lucky to have married such a naturally beautiful,
supportive, and compassionate woman.

Thanks go to my twin sisters, Irene and Dora. Looking back at those
wonderful years growing up together is always a source of inspiration.

Speaking of sources of inspiration, none beats the sparkle in my son
Cameron's brown eyes. Thanks, Cam. Your daddy loves you very much.

For his assistance and valuable feedback during the early stages of
writing the manuscript, I thank Gary Muschla.

I would like to thank Lt. Kate Muller from the U.S. Navy Public Affairs
Office at the Pentagon for her help coordinating part of the technical
assistance on this project.

Special thanks go to my technical consultants, all of whom spent a great
deal of their own time reviewing the manuscript and making helpful
suggestions. They are:

Lt. Comdr. Dave Parsons, U.S. Navy F-14A Tomcat Radar Intercept Officer
(RIO), who flew with squadron VF-32 "Swordsmen," aboard USS John F
Kennedy (CV-67) during the Gulf War. In addition to his flying
background, Commander Parsons is the author of a number of nonfiction
military books, and he was the editor of Approach, the naval aviation
safety review magazine.

Lt. Robert Lammana, U.S. Navy Aeromedical and Aviation Safety Officer,
stationed with Marine Aircraft Group 1, Third Marine Air Wing, in
Bahrain during the Gulf War. Lieutenant Lammana was in charge of
survival training, survival equipment, and aircrew defense systems,
among other responsibilities. He is currently the Aeromed ical Safety
Officer with Commander Fighter Wing One at NAS Oceana, Virginia.

Dennis Jenkins, military aviation writer and space shuttle engineer. Mr.
Jenkins has written books on the F-15, F- 1 4, B-52, EA-6A, and the
Space Shuttle, among others.

My friend Dave, who flew A-37s and F-5s as a civilian employee of the
U.S. government in counterinsurgency operations in Southeast Asia during
the Vietnam era.

To all four, I give my deepest gratitude for improving the technical
accuracy of the story. Any errors that remain, of course, are my own.

As a Catholic, I was taught that the saint for the impossible is St.
Jude (Catholics have saints for just about every occasion). Since
getting published is next to impossible, I decided to pray to him a
while back. I guess my prayers continue to be answered. Thank you, St.
Jude.

Special thanks go to Matt Bialer, my gifted agent at William Morris, for
his assistance, support, and guidance on this and other projects.

I would also like to thank Andy Zack for his thorough editorial
assistance during the revision process. Thanks to his accurate feedback,
clear direction, and helpful suggestions, Ultimatum is a better story.
It is always a pleasure to work with such a pro.

Finally, I want to thank the staff at Forge Books, particularly Anna
Magee and Camille Cline. Very special thanks go to Robert Gleason,
Editor-in-Chief of Tor and Forge Books, for giving me the opportunity to
become published and also for pushing me to hammer out the best possible
story I could.

We will not act prematurely or unnecessarily risk the cost of nuclear
war in which even the fruits of victory would be ashes in our mouth. But
neither will we shrink from that risk at any time it must be faced.

-john F Kennedy We have genuflected before the god of science only to
find that it has given us the atomic bomb, producing fears and anxieties
that science can never mitigate.

-Martin Luther King R. J. Pineiro Austin, Texas, 1994

ULTIMATUM PROLOGUE CRACOW, POLAND.

Wearing a dark blue overcoat over a long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans,
CIA Case Officer Donald Bane slowly studied Pijarska Street, running
south from the edge of Planty, the park ringing Cracow's old city. The
park had long replaced the old walls of the town, which had been torn
down in the middle of the nineteenth century. Two blocks up Pijarska
stood St. Florian's Gate, which led to the old town. Next to it was the
impressive Barbican, a large fifteenth-century fortress that had guarded
the gate back in those days.

The crystalline, star-filled sky of just an hour ago had given way to
gray clouds, which brought with them thunder and the high winds that
swirled Bane's thin brown hair. Four short bugle calls from the Church
of the Virgin Mary three blocks away mixed with the thunder, creating a
somewhat sinister sound. Bane was glad when the hourly calls from the
Gothic church stopped and he could hear only the natural sounds of the
storm.

Pulling up the lapels of his coat, Bane took two steps back into the
shadow of a tree by the edge of the park before placing his left hand in
the coat's side pocket. His fingers curled around the stainless-steel
handle of a Smith & Wesson Model 659 automatic pistol. He hoped he would
not have to use it on this cool and windy night, but twenty years with
the FBI prior to his current job with Central Intelligence had taught
him the value of being cautious.

At six feet two and 230 pounds, Bane was a large man with a shiny square
face and a broad nose. A pair of thick brows crowned Bane's alert blue.
eyes. His full lips and strong chin gave him the rugged appearance of a
prizefighter.

He spotted the headlights of an approaching car as the wind began to mix
with a light drizzle. The vehicle made its way over the pothole-filled
Pi . arska, casting a yellowish glow over the four-lane street. Bane
pressed his body against the tree trunk as the automobile-an old
Skoda-slowed down as it approached his position. The CIA officer heard
the strong bass of rock music coming through the Skoda's open windows
and spotted four kids inside the vehicle.

He relaxed. Waiting for one of his agents had never pleased Bane because
he felt too exposed, but as a senior case officer working for the
European Division within the Directorate of Operations, Donald Bane's
main job was that of recruiting agents in Kiev to spy for the CIA.
Normally, Bane would have held this meeting in the Ukrainian capital,
but his agent, General Vasili Krasilov, had contacted him a week,
earlier about a serious problem-too sensitive to be discussed over the
phone-at one of the army warehouses outside L'vov, where the Ukrainian
government stored key components of disassembled nuclear warheads prior
to their disposal in radiation-proof containers. The general, however,
had been reluctant to meet in Kiev. Because of the incident at the
warehouse, Ukrainian intelligence had many high ranking army officers
under constant surveillance. Luckily, the Ukrainian air force was
scheduled to participate in formation flight demonstrations at an air
show in Cracow this week, and General Krasilov was among the staff
escorting the pilots. It was the perfect opportunity for a clandestine
meeting, and Bane had flown in from Kiev this morning.

The Skoda continued to the end of the block, where the driver turned
left. Quiet returned, to be interrupted seconds later by thunder. The
light drizzle gained strength, slowly turning into a downpour, and a
fork of lightning streaked across the sky. Krasilov was late, very late.
Bane checked his watch again.

Where in the hell is he? Did something go wrong? he thought while
rubbing a hand over his coat to check a stack of one-hundred-dollar
bills tucked in an inside pocket. The money was the prearranged price
for Krasilov's information, assuming Bane thought it valuable enough to
dish out five thousand dollars from the Kiev station's budget. Contrary
to popular belief, CIA operations officers worked under very tight
budgets and had to account for every penny spent to pay off agents.

Thunder came as the rain began to drip down Bane's forehead and into his
eyes. He rubbed them and blinked several times to readjust his vision.
The collar of the cotton shirt he wore underneath was already soaked. As
he raised his hands to pull the coat's lapels even closer to his neck,
he felt someone tap him on the shoulder.

Startled, Bane quickly pulled out the Smith & Wesson as he pivoted on
his right foot while dropping to a deep crouch and bringing the weapon
up and around. His index finger was fixed on the trigger, the tall and
slim silhouette in front of him lined up between the fixed rear sight
and the adjustable forward sight.

He stopped and lowered the pistol.

In front of him stood General Vasili Krasilov, wearing a dark gray rain
coat. His soaked black hair stuck to the sides of his long, pale face, a
few strands falling over his narrow forehead. His eyes, fixed on Bane,
were as dark as the sky. His nose was as long and thin as his lips.
"You're late," Bane said, straightening up and shoving the pistol back
into his coat pocket.

Eyes frightened and bulging, Krasilov scanned both sides of the street
before saying with a heavy Slavic accent, "You brought the money. Yes?"

"Follow me. We're too exposed here," Bane said before turning around and
disappearing behind one of thousands of trees in the Planty. The stench
of urine filled his nostrils. It was mixed with the repulsive odor
rising off a pile of garbage to his left. A recent local strike had
disrupted some of the city's public services. Since his arrival in
Cracow, Bane had seen piles of garbage everywhere.

Briefly holding his breath, Bane pulled out his gun and warily inspected
the trees around him. He continued walking into the park until he
reached the edge of the parking lot on the other side, where a dark Fiat
was parked by the treeline. Bane pointed to the vehicle.

"Is safe there? Yes?" Krasilov asked.

"This side of the park's been sanitized. We're okay," Bane responded.

Still a bit reluctant, the Ukrainian general peered out from the edge of
the forest and scanned the deserted parking lot for several seconds
before moving. A minute later, they sat on the Fiat's front seats, where
Bane turned a knob on the dashboard. The tint on the windows abruptly
changed to a much darker shade. Bane then flipped a switch under the
dashboard and was rewarded with a light humming noise. All the windows
of -the small Fiat now vibrated at a high frequency, masking the
vibrations induced by any conversation inside the car. This last measure
would prevent anyone with a laser audio surveillance device from reading
the vibrations off the glass and translating them to a meaningful voice
pattern.

Krasilov gave Bane a puzzled look.

"Well? You said it was important," Bane said as the rain subsided to a
light drizzle.

"The money?"

"You'll get it after the information.,Those are the rules. Now, out with
it. We don't have much time."

Krasilov reached into his coat and handed Bane a stack of documents in a
green manila folder.

For the next five minutes, Bane reviewed the papers in silence. They
were mostly copies of records from the warehouse in L'vov showing
inventory levels of nuclear weapons components scheduled for
destruction. His eyes scanned through the long list of stored items,
paying close attention to the ones he recognized right away: plutonium
cores, neutron initiators, hollow spheres of high explosive plastic. The
classic ingredients of an atomic bomb.

"This shows a steady reduction of inventory, just as it should," Bane
said.

Krasilov rubbed his hands before saying, "But you see, that is the
problem. Yes?"

Bane looked at the old general. "But that's the purpose of this place,
right? To get rid of the stuff."

"That is correct. Yes. The problem is the destruction of the components
was put on hold a year ago."

Bane shifted his gaze back to the documents on his lap, quickly scanning
the dates on the forms. "But ... but these dates are from just eight
months ago, and they show that the level of inventory has dropped
significantly. What happened to the nuclear components?"

Krasilov shook his head. "They have disappeared."

"Disappeared? Where? Who's got them?"

The Ukrainian general spoke a single word: "Iraq."

Donald Bane closed his eyes. God Almighty.

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT: All they that take the sword shall perish with the
sword.

Matthew, 26:52

USS R4NGER. EIGHTY MILES NORTH OF BAHRAIN, PERSIAN GULF. Day One. 0800
Local Time.

The catapult officer held up two fingers and rotated his hand clock
wise. Lieutenant Kevin "Crackers" Dalton responded by pushing in both
throttles to the stops. His Grumman F-14A Tomcat mechan turbofans
unleashed forty trembled as both Pratt & Whitney thousand pounds of
thrust against the jet blast deflectors of number one catapult.

Watching the cat officer's hand signals, Kevin placed his flight
controls in the prescribed catapult position: flaps down, control stick
pulled back, and variable-sweep wings in the fully forward position. The
cat officer, a tall, thin black man wearing sun goggles, the standard
yellow jersey, and mandatory ear protectors, moved his head from side to
side, carefully making sure his area of responsibility was clear, before
glancing at the signal light on the carrier's island and verifying that
it was still yellow. Then he stared at Kevin.

Although Kevin was relatively new to the ceremony, he played his part
like a pro, bringing his right hand up and touching his index and middle
fingers against his helmet. The cat officer gave him a jaunty salute
before extending his right arm toward Kevin's Tomcat, hand flat. Kevin
responded by applying afterburners.

The cat officer, with the natural rhythm of a ballet dancer, bent down
and softly touched the armored deck with his right hand. At the catapult
control panel on the edge of the flight deck, the operator extended both
arms up in the air.

"All set?" Kevin asked his RIO over the intercom system, the ICS. "Sure
thing, Crackers," responded Kevin's Radar Intercept Officer, Lieutenant
Ricardo "Chico" Delgado, sitting directly behind Kevin in the dual cabin
of the thirty-ton plane. "Looks like another beautiful day in the
neighborhood," Delgado said.

Kevin smiled. In the three short months since he had been paired to fly
with Delgado, Kevin had already grown to like the short and slim East
L.A. native, who at twenty-five years of age had already seen more than
any man's fair share of death in the streets of that volatile section of
Los Angeles. Still, Delgado, like most naval aviators and flight
officers, had managed to keep a sense of humor that Kevin considered
necessary while flying a multimillion-dollar aircraft in hostile
territory. That attitude helped Kevin endure the sorties he had flown
patrolling the waters of the Gulf, as well as the skies over Kuwait and
northern Saudi Arabia, and Iraqi airspace south of the thirty-second
parallel the region called the no-fly zone. Although he had encountered
no resistance, Kevin knew he should not get overconfident. He had to
continue to fly under the assumption that the Iraqis were as treacherous
as his superiors had described them since his arrival at the carrier six
months before. The Clinton administration had ordered not only a larger
naval force to protect the region from Saddam Hussein's reenergized
forces, but also deployed squadrons of F-15 Eagles, F-117A Stealth
fighters, AH-64 Apache helicopters, and A- IO Warthog "tank killers,"
along with supporting tankers, AWACS, and rescue helicopters. In
addition, the American president had sent 45,000 troops and two hundred
tanks to the region, deploying them along the northern border of Kuwait
and Saudi Arabia. Britain, Italy, and France also had forces in the
region.

After a brief glance at the thumbs-up from the bow safety observer, and
a final visual check on the fighter, the cat officer, still in a
semi-crouch, thrust his torso, arm and hand toward the carrier's bow.
Kevin's smile faded away as he leaned his head forward and visualized
the cat operator striking the palm-size launch button.

One potato, two potato, yahoo!

The g-forces grew rapidly from the pull of the shuttle connecting his
craft's nose strut to the catapult piston, which was driven by a
colossal volume of highly pressurized steam stored in a tank under the
flight deck. Kevin's vision momentarily narrowed. Most of his blood sank
to the back of his body, and his limbs tingled from the sudden lack of
circulation.

As the pressure subsided at the end of the catapult stroke, Kevin
scanned his instruments, keeping rearward pressure on the control stick
and slapping the gear handle up. Only then did he indulge himself in a
quick backward glance at the ship. The USS Ranger (CV-61) already
appeared small against the clear blue waters of the Gulf. The carrier's
peaceful wake extended for miles.

While executing a clearing turn to the right to avoid a conflict with
the Rangers air traffic, Kevin kept the nose at an eight-degree angle
over the horizon and slowly watched his airspeed increase ... 210 knots
...  220 knots. He raised the flaps at 225 knots, adjusted throttle, and
increased his angle of climb to twenty degrees.

He leveled off at ten thousand feet and a comfortable 230 knots,
bringing the nose of his Tomcat twenty feet below and to the right of
his flight leader, Commander Dewayne "Shadow" Lancaster, who also
-happened to be the Executive Officer (XO) of Kevin's squadron,
Wolfpack, one of two F-14A squadrons aboard the Ranger.

Lancaster had been Kevin's flight instructor for most of his stay at
Naval Air Station Miramar, where Kevin had learned to fly the Tomcat.
Upon graduation, Kevin had been ordered to the Ranger, where he had
learned that Lancaster had also been ordered. That had been a pleasant
surprise to Kevin, who regarded Lancaster as a solid pilot, a fair
instructor, and a friend. From fellow classmates at Miramar, Kevin had
learned early on about Lancaster's reputation. A poor black, he had
survived both the South Bronx and the Navy's rigorous aviator training
to become a top-notch pilot.

Kevin shook those thoughts away and followed Lancaster's Tomcat at "max
conserve" speed-230 knots during nonthreatening situations -for maximum
conservation of fuel. For the next thirty minutes, the pair of Tomcats
flew north. Their mission, as defined by the day's Air Tasking Order,
was to fly Combat Air Patrol (CAP) twenty miles north of the battleship
USS Wisconsin (BB-64), which, during Operation Desert Storm, had pounded
Iraq with 16-inch shells and dozens of Tomahawk missiles. The Wisconsin
had been called back to the area six months ago, when Iraq, in addition
to restricting the access of a United Nations inspection team, began
deployment of SA-2 and SA-3 surface to-air missiles in the southern
no-fly zone.

ATO mission plans, similar to those used during Desert Storm, were
generated daily by U.S. Central Command Air Forces (CENTAF) in Riyadh.
Today's ATO had arrived at the Ranger the night before, as usual,
providing air crews and support sections the time needed to -.make all
necessary mission preparations. But unlike the ATOS of Operation Desert
Storm-which included targets, the aircraft assigned to each target, the
time each plane would take off, the time to attack ..each target, and
the ordnance to be used during the attack-the current ATOS were mostly
CAPS.

Following Lancaster's lead, Kevin gently inched the control stick
forward and to the left while applying left rudder to execute a
coordinated dive turn. He kept his eyes trained on Lancaster's plane,
which softly grazed the edge of a cloud. The Wisconsin loomed over the
horizon. Kevin waited for Lancaster's RIO, Lieutenant Gary "Baby"
Johnson, to make radio contact with the USS Bunker Hill (CG-52), one of
two guided-missile cruisers escorting the Wisconsin. While flying
wingman, Kevin was required to keep radio chatter outside the squadron
frequency to a minimum and let the lead RIO do most of the talking.

"Red Crown, Wolfpack Two Zero Two, over, " Kevin heard Baby Johnson say
over the radio. Red Crown was the call sign assigned to the Bunker Hill
that particular day by the ATO, which also dictated the call signs of
all aircraft in the region, except for those flying Combat Air Patrol.
For planes flying CAP' the call sign was the combination of the
squadron's name and the plane's side number.

"Two Zero Two, Red Crown, go ahead "Two Zero Two, checking in with Two
One Four, " responded Johnson, confirming his mission to the cruiser and
also relaying Kevin's plane's call sign.

"Zero Two, " came the reply from the Bunker Hill, which followed the
standard procedure of only using the plane's last two digits after
establishing communication.

Still following Lancaster's lead, Kevin held his Tomcat at max conserve
and settled into a racetrack pattern. According to the ATO, he and
Lancaster would remain in the region for the next two hours.

AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day One. 0845 Local
Time.

Colonel Abunnasr Manesh taxied his Mikoyan-Gurevich-23, NATO code name
"Flogger," air superiority fighter, out of the camouflaged shelter and
onto the single paved runway of the dusty airfield, and waited for three
other Migs from his flight unit to position themselves behind him in an
inverted "V" formation. Shimmering waves of heat rose from the
blistering tarmac beneath the craft.

Manesh frowned, still disappointed with the flight crew that hadn't been
able to finish the repairs on his Mig-29 in time for today's mission,
forcing him to fly the sluggish Flogger. In actuality, Manesh knew that
the Mig-23 was not a slow plane, but compared to the modern Mig-29, the
old Flogger fell short in maneuverability-a basic need for modern-day
dogfight survival. He frowned again, more disappointed in his
government, which had ordered him to lead this flight in and out of the
no-fly zone in defiance of U.N. resolutions. Manesh felt they should be
using the high-performance fighters to stop the intruders from
controlling sections of their homeland. But at least there were men like
his superior, General Qazi Ali, who never hesitated to speak up when the
orders from Baghdad did not make sense. The very popular General Ali was
one of very few men in Iraq with enough clout to protest orders that
would put Iraqi fighting men in unnecessary danger, such as the recent
deployment of forces south of the thirty-second parallel, or the flight
Manesh was about to begin. But insane or not, Saddam's orders were the
laws of the land, and upset as he was, Manesh knew how to follow them.
General Ali, however, had taken the matter a step further this time, not
only protesting the senseless orders, but flying to Baghdad to discuss
the matter with Saddam personally.

"Preflight check," Manesh spoke into the voice-activated microphone
attached to his helmet as he stepped on the brakes and applied three
-fourths throttle. A second later, Manesh could hear the intimidating
sound of four Tumanskii R-29B afterburning turbofans accelerating in
unison. He moved his control stick to the right and left and checked
that the ailerons at the end of the swing wings responded to his
commands. Satisfied, he scanned the engine gauges one last time and
reduced power.

"We are the selected ones, my brothers! The blasphemous West shall not
stop us from flying over our own land!"

"Inshallah!" was the unanimous response from the pilots of the other
Floggers.

Colonel Manesh lowered the flaps and applied full throttle, still
keeping his feet against the brake pedals. The Mig trembled under
conflicting commands. His sweaty palm fought to maintain a solid grip on
the control stick as he waited for a few more seconds while he eyed the
short runway.

Suddenly, Manesh let go of the brakes; the craft jerked forward and sped
down the runway under the scorching midmorning sun. His eyes were fixed
on his airspeed indicator. Just a few more knots ... he thought, inching
back the control stick when the needle darted past 150 knots. The
Flogger gracefully left the ground but did not climb far. As soon as
Manesh was airborne, he retracted the gear and lowered the nose, almost
instantly feeling the pressure of the seat against his back when the
sudden loss of drag allowed the craft to reach three hundred knots in a
few more seconds. Manesh kept the Mig below one hundred feet and glanced
backward. The squadron would remain low and slow -to avoid radar
detection.

Manesh thanked Allah, certain that the true Islamic spirit was with him
and his beloved Iraq, not with the barbarous Americans who had so
mercilessly murdered his parents during Operation Desert Storm in an air
raid on the Iraqi city of Abadan. During the first night of that dreaded
war, when his government had allowed him to fight back, Manesh and
several other Mig pilots had engaged the invaders by the Saudi border.
In less than five minutes, the sky had filled with enemy planes. Manesh
had been the only one to make it back to the aircraft shelter, buried
under several feet of sand and reinforced concrete and, in theory,
impenetrable. Iraq had invested billions in the construction of nearly
five hundred hardened aircraft shelters. The craft were protected. At
least, that was Baghdad's original assessment. A day later, when an
American fighter dropped a laser-guided bomb through a shelter's
ventilation shaft at Talil Air Base, destroying every fighter inside,
Baghdad changed its plans and ordered Migs to Iran.

Iran. Bastards! thought Manesh. The Iranians were responsible for
killing his wife and newborn a decade before, during Iraq's
eight-yearlong struggle with its neighbor. The Iranians leveled his
village while the Americans watched from the safety of their destroyers.
Just a few of those fancy American surface-to-air missiles and the
Iranians would have had to pull back. But it didn't happen that way.
Manesh had found his family a day later, buried under the four feet of
rubble that had been their home. He mourned them for weeks, until slowly
his grief turned into hate-hate for those who had so brutally taken his
family away from him. They were all guilty in his mind: the Iranians for
pulling the trigger, and the Westerners for not doing anything about it.
It was then that Colonel Abunnasr Manesh led the retaliatory air strike
against the Iranian city of Khorramshahr, meaning "the city of greenness
and happiness." Within a single month, Manesh had dropped enough
explosives on the oil-rich city that his government renamed it
Khuninshahr ... "the city of blood."

With his mind still in the past, Manesh remained below one hundred feet
as he flew over the Euphrates and approached the swamplands surrounding
the Shatt al Arab waterway, deep in the no-fly zone, Wolfpack Two Zero
Two, Cougar, " Lieutenant Kevin Dalton heard the crew from an Airborne
Warning and Control System (AWACS)-a modified Boeing 707 fitted with an
over fuselage radome almost thirty feet in diameter-transmitting over
the control frequency to get the Tomcats' attention. AWACS, which did
not use numbers in their call signs, housed state-of-the-art computers,
radars, and communication equipment to monitor and control air activity
in a three-hundred-mile radius. Dividing the country into three
sectors-east, central, and west-AWACS had the entire Iraqi airspace
wired. Round-the-clock AWACS crews electronically interrogated every
aircraft within their range. If the code in the interrogated aircraft's
Identification Friendly or Foe (IFF) system didn't match any of the
day's ATO-supplied codes, the craft would be tagged as hostile and its
coordinates passed to the nearest Allied interceptor squadron.

"Cougar, Two Zero Two, " Lieutenant Baby Johnson responded over the
radio.

"Four bandits. Your vector's three four zero for one five zero, buster,
the AWACS crew said, providing Lancaster and Kevin not only with the
enemy's position with respect to the Wisconsin, but also using the term
"buster," which told them to intercept as fast as possible without
afterburners.

"Got them!" confirmed Lieutenant Chico Delgado over the ICS.

"Phoenix selected," said Kevin, arming one of the Hughes AIM54A Phoenix
long-range air-to-air missiles his Tomcat carried under the fuselage.

"Three four zero, one fifty miles, one hundred feet at three hundred
knots, headin' zero niner zero," Delgado responded, providing the
bearing, range, altitude, speed, and heading (BRASH) of the enemy in
precisely that order.

, "Breaking four bandits heading one six zero, " said Baby Johnson.

"Same," responded Delgado.

Kevin followed his lead as the pair of Tomcats accelerated to six
hundred knots. Delgado had already activated the Tomcat's pulse doppler
search and tracking radar system. The complex computer was directly in
control of the four Phoenix missiles mounted on pallets under the
aircraft's belly. The system was designed to simultaneously track up to
twenty-four targets.

Kevin smelled Iraqi meat. He felt the adrenaline flood his system as the
possibility of combat neared. He hadn't seen any real action yet, having
flown only uneventful escort missions so far. The untamed pilot in Kevin
longed for combat, but his logical side told him that he was still a
rookie learning the ropes. With his heartbeat rocketing, Kevin followed
Lancaster, adding more throttle and putting his craft into a shallow
dive toward the coast. The F-14A accelerated through the sound barrier
with minimal disturbance. The central air data computer, the onboard
electronics system that controlled the wing's angle of sweep,
automatically moved the wings aft, bringing them to the fully swept
position of sixty-eight degrees as Kevin read Mach 1.2 on his control
instrument panel.

"Talk to me, Chico," said Kevin over the ICS.

"Bandits now three four five, ninety miles, heading three three zero.
They're turning around."

"Damn."

Leaving the waters of the Gulf behind, the F-14As streaked through clear
skies at Mach 1.4 and flew an ' intercept vector while descending to one
thousand feet. The pilots flew a toboggan letdown, which "unloaded" the
aircraft and allowed it to accelerate more rapidly without increasing
fuel consumption.

"Bandits now in two sections! They must have detected us on their
warning gear," said Delgado as he watched the symbols on his screen
abruptly change course. "One section to three three one, the other to
zero one zero."

"How long before they leave the zone?" asked Kevin.

"In seconds ... going single target track on the lead!"

The Tomcats zeroed in on the two Migs that had turned to heading zero
one zero.

Colonel Manesh's tail warning aerial went off. The alarm told him that
he had at least one F- 1 4 locked on his craft but that it had not yet
fired, otherwise the Electronic Counter Measures alarms would have been
blaring inside the cockpit. With his wingman glued to his right, Manesh
pushed the throttles to the forward stops and the Flogger accelerated to
Mach 1. 1. His wingman remained with him.

Under his oxygen mask, Colonel Manesh smiled broadly as his plane
crossed north of the thirty-second parallel.

"Two Zero Two, Red Crown. Knock-it-off. Repeat, knock-it-off.
Approaching Waterloo Red, " Kevin heard the voice from the Bunker Hill
crackling through his headset, ordering them to turn around as they got
dangerously close to the thirty-second parallel.

Kevin couldn't believe it. Just a few more seconds and he would have had
them. Damn!

"Two Zero Two, resetting, " Kevin heard Baby Johnson respond as
Lancaster broke off the attack.

Following Shadow Lancaster, Kevin eased the control column to the right
while executing a steep climb to six thousand feet. The Tomcats leveled
off and continued on a southerly heading. "Better luck next time," Kevin
said over the intercom. "Mierda! Someone's got a radar lock on us!"
snapped Delgado. Delgado hadn't finished speaking when alarms went off
inside Kevin's cockpit.

"Dios mio! We got two Floggers at our six! The other Migs must have
turned around!"

Wh-what? Instinctively, Kevin applied full throttle and put his craft
into a vertical climb.

"Dammit! All Floggers turned around. We got four bandits!" fumed
Lieutenant Baby Johnson from the backseat of Lancaster's Tomcat over the
squadron frequency.

Kevin started dispensing chaff in anticipation of enemy missiles.
Spotting the wispy contrails of two missiles closing in fast, Kevin cut
left as Lancaster continued after the first two Migs.

:"Chaff doing any good?" asked Kevin.

"You beat one! The second one's still on us!"

Kevin continued the turn, but the missile stayed on him. He threw the
stick forward and pointed the nose straight down toward the desert. His
airspeed shot above 450 knots. The desert sands filled his windscreen.
He knew he had one last move before impact and he made it,
simultaneously pumping more chaff and pulling the control stick back
hard as the altimeter reading rushed below two hundred feet. With the
warning gear blaring crazily, the wings-covered with vapor automatically
swung forward as speed bled off, increasing the craft's lift. But even
with the loss of airspeed, over seven g's blasted against the
Titanium-layered air surfaces. The F-14's G sensor, detecting the craft
ntal pressure hammering the craft and crew, rushed compressed air
through the hose connected to Kevin's G suit-a pair of zippered pants
with air bladders around his waist, thighs, and calves forcing blood
back up to his head to keep him from losing consciousness.

The Tomcat vibrated to the point of near disintegration under the
ferocious pressure, which pounded Kevin into his ejection seat. Feeling
seven times heavier than normal, and with his vision reduced to the
information painted on the Heads-up Display, Kevin kept up the pull on
the center stick. Slowly, the pressure subsided as Kevin silently
thanked the Grumman engineers who had designed his F- 1 4. He grinned
triumphantly as the nose rose over the horizon.

The missile, lacking such maneuverability, spit out of the turn and
plunged into the sand with a bright explosion.

Kevin took a deep breath as the G-suit deflated. "Where's the Floggers?"

"Tally four bogeys. Bastards turned around. Two at two o'clock, high, on
Shadow. Two at our eight, high, watching us."

Finding it nearly impossible to believe that the Iraqi planes had
actually turned around, sneaked up on him, and fired their missiles,
Kevin turned into the threat, switching to Sidewinders, and hurtled
after the Migs while Lancaster went vertical, pumping chaff and flares.

"I'm at your seven, low, Shadow, engaged."

"Roger, I'm a little busy, " responded Lancaster.

Kevin swung the control column to the left and back, positioning himself
behind the Migs threatening Lancaster, who cut a tight left turn. The
Iraqis simultaneously broke formation, one to the right, the other to
the left. Kevin stayed on the left one to protect his lead and smoothly
advanced the throttles to military power.

"They're gonna try to sandwich us!" warned Delgado over the ICS.

"I won't give them the chance!" Kevin pushed full throttle and felt the
turbofans' afterburners punching him in the back as the Tomcat gathered
speed and quickly closed the gap. Kevin selected a radar mode that would
yield an automatic lock. He was rewarded with a white diamond on the
Heads-up Display directly in front of his line of sight, signaling a
radar lock on the Flogger.

The Flogger went into a steep climbing turn after Lancaster. The Mig's
burner was wide open as the craft rolled and dove, but Kevin easily
stayed with it, adjusting the throttle setting while rolling his craft
on its back and dropping on the Mig like a hawk. The maneuverability of
his Tomcat was far superior to that of the Mig-23, whose sweep wings
were not automatics liability in a dogfight. The Mig's white-hot
tailpipe screamed for a Sidewinder. As the desert and sky swapped
places, Kevin frowned under his oxygen mask. His headphones rattled with
the buzzing tone of a Sidewinder infrared track. The range to the Mig,
however, was only a few hundred feet.

"Damn! Too close for missiles! Switching to guns!"

Kevin put the pipper on the Mig and pulled the trigger. The General
Electric 20mm multibarrel Vulcan cannon came to life. Kevin kept an eye
on the digital counter painted on the HUD. The gun came with 670 rounds,
but firing at a rate of one thousand rounds per minute gave him less
than forty seconds of firing time. To avoid using up the ammo too fast,
he squeezed off two short bursts while he adjusted the pipper on the
HUD. As a river of shells ripped across the Mig's left wing, the Iraqi
fighter broke its attack on Lancaster, briefly leveled off, and pulled
up into a vertical corkscrew, ruining Kevin's angle.

As Lancaster went after the other Migs, Kevin jammed the throttles to
the forward stops and pulled back on the stick, trying to stay with his
target. The g's hammered him once again. The G counter reached 6.8 as
his G suit inflated again. With his vision tunneling, Kevin followed the
Flogger up to twenty thousand feet. His index finger caressed the
trigger of the Vulcan, but before he got a chance to line up the craft,
the Mig rolled its wings and dropped back down. Kevin remained glued to
its tail. Another turn and a climb, and he regained the angle. With the
Mig's tail filling his windscreen, he fired.

The Flogger's turbofan spewed fire and smoke as the 20mm rounds
penetrated the fuselage. Without power, the Mig entered a flat spin.
Without an engine, Kevin knew the Iraqi pilot would not be able to
recover.

"Good shootin'! His buddy's eight, low, hose away," Delgado said.

"Got him!"

Kevin saw the wingman in his rearview mirror and grinned. With the
burners still wide open, Kevin put the Tomcat in a vertical oblique
climbing turn, allowing Kevin to turn inside the Mig's turning circle.
The Mig turned north at full speed. Once again, the monumental pressure
resulted in the temporary loss of peripheral vision as Kevin sank deep
into his seat. Struggling against five g's, Kevin double checked his
selection of a Sidewinder. As the radar locked, the Sidewinder seeker
head slaved to the target and began its buzzing. The F- 1 4 saddled in
behind the Mig at almost a thousand feet over the desert.

"Good lock, shoot, shoot ... oh, shit, Waterloo Red, Crackers! The
bandit's Waterloo Red. Knock-it-off" said Delgado, realizing that the
Mig had just reached the thirty-second parallel.

Kevin released a Sidewinder before breaking hard right. The missile's
MK36 solid-propellant rocket motor came alive, thrusting the 180-pound
missile to Mach 3.

"Tracking ... it's tracking!"

The Sidewinder's infrared tracking system homed into the sizzling hot
exhaust of the Mig-23. Kevin watched the Flogger go for a dive while it
released infrared flares, but the missile was too close to be fooled.
Twenty-five pounds of high explosives with preformed rods blasted the
tail section of the Flogger as the canopy blew upward, followed by the
pilot on a rocket-propelled ejection seat. Kevin watched a bright red
parachute open to his left and pulled the throttle aft to sixty percent.

Commander Shadow Lancaster had the advantage on the remaining two Migs,
still caught below the thirty-second parallel.

"Fire one!"

The Phoenix missile disengaged itself from the pallet and remained
suspended in midair a few feet under the Tomcat's belly for a second
before the solid-propellant rocket kicked in and accelerated the missile
toward the right Flogger. Since it was less than a mile away, the
Phoenix automatically switched off from the Tomcat's pulse-Doppler
system to its own active radar, homing in on the Mig at an incredible
Mach 3.8. In less than five seconds, the missile's high-explosive
warhead reached the Flogger.

Colonel Manesh's ECM had started beeping seconds ago. He instinctively
cut sharp left. As he did so, he saw a ball of fire to his right. His
wingman's craft had just disintegrated. He turned north and applied full
throttle.

Manesh frowned, realizing that it had not been Allah's wish to destroy
the American fighters. He crossed north of the thirty-second parallel a
few seconds later.

"Two Zero Two, Red Crown. Say status, " Kevin heard the voice from the
Bunker Hill cruiser say.

"Two Zero Two, Two One Four, up and up, requesting victory break,
responded Lieutenant Baby Johnson.

"Shadow, why'd you let the last Mig go?" asked Kevin on the squadron
discrete frequency.

"It reached Iraqi neutral airspace before I could get him. By the way,
nice job, Crackers. Two Floggers with heaters and the gun? Who'd you say
was your instructor?"

Kevin smiled as he brought his Tomcat below and slightly behind and to
the right of Lancaster's in order to perform a visual inspection of his
leader's craft. "I learned how in the movies. You know ... Top Gun?"

Kevin heard laughter over the squadron channel. "You're clean and dry,
Shadow," said Kevin, finding no damage or leaks on Lancaster's F- 1 4.

Kevin noticed Lancaster now inspecting his craft. A few moments later
Lancaster said, "Crackers, you're clean and dry too."

"How about some gas?" said Kevin.

"Sounds good."

"Red Crown, Two Zero Two, vector to Texaco, " said Baby Johnson.

"Zero Two, Texaco enroute, vector one six zero.

"Zero Two.

Forty minutes later, after refueling from a KA-6D, an A-6 Intruder
modified as a flying gas station, Lieutenant Dalton approached the
Ranger on the upwind leg at eight hundred feet with the wings fully
swept back and doing almost 550 knots. The moment the nose of his craft
reached a point three hundred feet to the right of the carrier's stern,
Kevin executed the first of two victory rolls, one per kill. He finished
the first as he flew next to the carrier's island, and rolled out of the
second by the time he flew past the Ranger's bow, where he leveled off,
applied the air brakes, and cut back power to bleed some airspeed.

The wings swept to the fully forward position while he turned in front
of the carrier and entered the downwind leg, maintaining eight hundred
feet. The Ranger was now to his left. He lowered flaps and gear:
airspeed 132 knots. He waited until the carrier was a third of a mile
behind him before making a wide one-eighty turn. Unlike airport traffic
patterns, carrier patterns did not have a base leg. Kevin rolled out of
the turn on final with the Ranger's stern lined up with the nose of his
craft.

Kevin aimed his Tomcat at the third of four specially woven and hardened
arresting wires stretched across the landing area forward of the
carrier's stern. He had already lowered the tailhook shortly after
refueling. He pulled the throttle aft to seventy-five percent power,
keeping his airspeed just under 130 knots.

"Mig Killer, call the ball, " came the voice from the duty Landing
Signal Officer, who usually remained silent during daylight approaches
unless there was trouble or a special occasion.

"Roger," responded Kevin with a smile.

"Mig Killer, all down, clear deck. Clear deck. Quarter-mile, " said the
duty LSO, confirming that the Tomcat's landing gear and tailhook were
down. This was also unnecessary radio chatter during daylight landings,
but Kevin figured that they were probably recording the event on tape
for posterity.

"Roger. Quarter-mile," he responded, playing along.

At the LSO platform, the duty LSO not only graded Kevin's approach but
also had the power to signal him to wave-it-off, or abort his approach
if he spotted trouble. Additionally, there were a half-dozen either
listening to the radio or relaying information to other men sections of
the ship. Kevin knew from his NAS Pensacola training days that he was
dropping fast, but as long as he kept the lighted orange ball centered
in the landing mirror of the Ranger's deck edge, he was certain his
approach was safe.

"Two One Four, Tomcat ball, five point six," Kevin said over the radio
as he kept the Tomcat's nose aligned with the carrier's stern, also
informing the LSO that he had 5,600 pounds of fuel left. Kevin's eyes
shifted between the ball, the carrier's centerline, the landing area,
and a quick glance at the indicated airspeed.

"Roger ball, Mig Killer, " the LSO responded.

The F-14A cleared the deck by sixteen feet three seconds before Kevin
slammed the craft down in a "controlled crash." As the landing gear hit
the deck with the force of nearly seventy tons, Kevin threw his throttle
forward to full power in case his tailhook had missed the wire. The
strong hook snatched arresting wire number three. Its ends were
connected to a greasy inch-and-a-half-diameter cable secured to large
grooved pulley wheels, which were jerked in rotation and exploded in a
cloud of oil mist as the massive arresting mechanism stopped the heavy
craft, traveling at 120 knots, in under two seconds.

Kevin felt the seat's harness digging into his shoulders as the craft
came to an abrupt halt a hundred feet from the forward edge of the
Ranger's deck. He idled the turbines at the command of the yellowshirted
director, who was running across the deck with both hands up in the air.

"OK, Mig Killer, " the duty LSO said over the radio, telling Kevin that
he had executed a perfect landing.

"Nice pass, Crackers. You should do this for a living," said Delgado
over the ICS.

Kevin chuckled.

The springback pull of the arresting wire pulled loose of the tailhook,
allowing Kevin to raise it and taxi the F-14A to the right side of the
deck, where the plane captain, wearing a brown jersey and an array of
chains and hooks hanging loose off his shoulders, patiently " waited to
tie down "his" aircraft.

One minute later, Lancaster pulled alongside Kevin's F-14A. Kevin and
Delgado climbed down the side of the fighter and jumped down to the
armored deck while Lancaster raised the canopy of his jet. A couple of
photographers ran to the side of Kevin's craft and began snapping photos
of the aviators in full gear standing next to their machine while other
pilots spray-painted two Mig silhouettes on the Tomcat's side below the
cockpit.

Kevin felt good about himself. He had not only fooled two enemy
missiles, but he'd managed to nail two Migs. The long hours of training
and hard work had definitely paid off. In the midst of all the
excitement and back patting, Kevin heard a familiar voice.

"You people gave us one hell of a scare out there!"

Kevin and Delgado turned around and stared into the blue eyes of the
F-14A Wolfpack's Commanding Officer, Commander John "Ghost" Mcdeere, a
six-feet-two man with the broadest shoulders in the Navy. Kevin, at just
under 185 pounds and five feet ten, found him thoroughly intimidating.
The forty-two-year-old CO stood near the Tomcat's left stabilator with
his hands on his hips. His comment had quieted down the welcoming
committee.

"Ali, well, sir, they didn't leave us much of a-" Delgado began to
respond.

Mcdeere raised his right. hand in a fist, thumb extended, and pointed it
to the stairs. "Beat it, Delgado. I'll see you at the debrief. Right now
they're waiting for you at the CIC," he said, referring to the combat
intelligence center.

"Yes sir!" Delgado fled.

Mcdeere put his hand back on his hip and stared at Kevin. "You've got a
lot to learn about rules of engagement, mister!"

The photographers and the other pilots slowly retreated.

The comment took Kevin entirely by surprise. He had expected a
compliment for a job well done. Puzzled, he rubbed a hand through his
thick black hair and regarded Mcdeere for a moment before saying, "They
really didn't leave us much of a choice out there, sir."

"We'll see. I just spoke with the CAG, and he wants to see us
immediately. I gotta tell you, he's pissed, and with good reason." CAG,
an acronym used decades before for Commander Air Group, was used in the
modern-day Navy to refer to the Carrier Air Wing Commander, the officer
in charge of all aircraft, crew, and operations aboard the carrier.

"Who's pissed off, Ghost?" Lancaster asked as he approached them,
holding his helmet in his right hand and motioning his RIO to follow
Delgado. As Executive Officer, or second in command of the squadron,
Lancaster reported to Mcdeere.

Lancaster was as large as Mcdeere, but that's where any similarity
ended. The color of their skin was as different as their personalities.
Mcdeere, a borderline albino with thinning blond hair, a million
freckles, and thick eyebrows, knew only how to go by the book, the book,
and nothing but the book. He followed his orders blindly, never
questioned authority, and despised those who did. He was a model officer
and a top-notch aviator, but in Kevin's mind he could also be one royal
pain in the ass at times. Lancaster, on the other hand, not only was
coal-black, but his explosive youth had taught him to take life a bit
easier. His lined face complemented the traces of gray in his otherwise
black hair, which lately seemed to be losing ground to a growing
forehead. Like Mcdeere, Lancaster also realized that there was a book to
be followed, but he also knew that the book was written by humans, and
humans always made mistakes, particularly those employed in the armed
forces.

"The CAG's pissed off," responded Mcdeere, rubbing the back of his neck
while briefly closing his eyes. "I'm afraid you two set him off."

"You think I can take a leak before we go see good ol' Brassballs?"

The comment brought a smile to Kevin's lips.

"Don't get smart, Shadow," Mcdeere fired back. "If the CAG ever hears
you calling him that, the only thing you'll be flying till you retire
are C-130s out of Okinawa filled with sushi." He turned his attention to
Kevin. "At this moment I don't see any reason for smiles. In case you
haven't been keeping up with current events, you failed to follow rules
of engagement."

"Oh, c'mon, Ghost," Lancaster said. "Cut Crackers some slack, would ya?

We had knocked it off and were headin' south when they doubled back on
us."

"Well, let's head over to see the CAG. And I suggest you two watch your
mouth and play it cool while we're in there."

Kevin still couldn't figure out what had gone wrong. All he did was
defend himself against the Migs. He pressed Mcdeere for an answer. "But,
sir, I don't see what in the world I-"

Mcdeere raised an eyebrow while slowly shaking his head. "You're about
to find out, Crackers. Now let's go. The CAG's waiting."

Mcdeere turned around and followed Lancaster down the stairs. Kevin
exhaled, shook his head, and went after them.

Two minutes later, the door almost snapped off of its hinges when the
Ranger's Carrier Air Wing Commander, Captain Vince "Brassballs" Cutter
slammed it after Kevin, Lancaster, and Mcdeere walked into his
relatively spacious quarters. Kevin and Lancaster had not even had the
chance to stop at the dressing room to remove their flight gear. Both
wore their olive-drab flying suits and gear vests, a mass of zippered
pockets housing their survival equipment. The long tubes for the G suit
connection hung at their sides. Their hair was soaking wet from
perspiration, which continued to drip down the deep red marks left on
their faces by the oxygen masks.

Kevin studied Cutter, a slightly overweight fifty-one-year-old who had
gone completely bald two decades before. The captain had started his
career in the Navy during the Vietnam War as a pilot in the venerable
A-6 Intruder. Rumor was that he had single-handedly taken care of a
half-dozen Vietcong after being shot down inside enemy territory and had
carried his unconscious navigator/bombardier on his shoulders for almost
five miles before he had called in to be evacuated. Later on, when asked
why he simply hadn't requested a helicopter at the crash site, Cutter
had responded that the site had been too exposed, and he had wanted to
make sure he had lost any trailing VC before endangering the lives of
the rescue crew. Looking at him now, Kevin doubted the overweight CAG
could endure a two-minute walk through dense jungle, much less carry
someone on his shoulders.

The trio snapped to attention as the CAG approached them. "At ease,
Ghost. Step aside, please."

"Yes, sir." Mcdeere moved to the side of the room.

Oh, shit, thought Kevin, remaining perfectly still, his eyes focused on
the painting of a clipper behind Cutter's desk. He'd seen a second
painting to the right of the room, where the CAG also kept a small table
filled with framed photos, newspaper articles, and medals. Here comes
the wrath of Brassballs.

"Just what in the fuck did you two idiots think you were doing?"

"Sir, with all due-"

"Oh, spare me the bullshit, Shadow!"

"Ahem ... sir? May I say some-" Kevin began.

"If you know what's good for you, mister, you better keep your mouth
shut and pray to remain airborne." Cutter looked at Lancaster, veins in
his head standing out. "Jesus Christ, Shadow! I've known you for years!

How could you let your wingman do something so damned stupid and violate
Iraqi airspace north of the thirty-second?"

"It may have been pretty close, but those bastards fired two missiles at
us, for crying out loud, sir! We had no choice. What were we supposed to
do? Fly by and give them the bird while they fired at us? We blew their
asses right out of the sky!"

"Watch your mouth, Shadow! Don't you forget who in the fuck you're
talking to!" Cutter's face was now inches away from Lancaster's.

Lancaster inhaled deeply and dropped his voice a couple of decibels.
Cutter took a step back.

"No disrespect intended, CAG. We had broken off pursuit and were headed
south when we were jumped. We were in a defensive role and reacted to
their attack. Two Migs attacked Lieutenant Dalton. One fired two
missiles at him. He not only protected a multimillion-dollar plane with
his flying, but he destroyed the two Mig-23s using a single Sidewinder
and the guns, again acting totally in self-defense. I also had to evade
two of their missiles before going in pursuit of the other two Migs.
After seeing the way they'd attacked us, I made a judgment call. I do
hope you noticed that I didn't go after that last Mig when it disengaged
and left the zone."

"That's the only reason why you're still wearing those wings, Shadow."

Cutter shifted his gaze to Kevin, who remained at attention next to
Lancaster. "Two Migs, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long have you been out of flight school?"

"One year, sir." Kevin's eyes slowly gravitated toward Cutter, who
burned him with his stare. Kevin's attention went back to the painting.

"One year out of the RAG, ah?" Cutter continued while pacing back and
forth in front of Kevin. The RAG, or Replacement Air Group, is the final
phase of a Navy pilot's training, where pilots specialize in a certain
type of plane. "Well, let me tell you something. A year ain't shit, son!

You're too damned green to start making your own decisions in the air!

You're a rookie, dammit! Nothing but a fucking RAG grad with an inflated
ego because you just downed two Migs!"

"But, sir, those Migs-"

"Listen, Crackers. If you think you're so smart, then answer this. After
you destroyed the first Mig and had saddled in on the second one, how
far was it from leaving the zone?"

Kevin realized Cutter was trapping him, but there wasn't anything he
could do, especially since he didn't remember the exact location where
he'd shot down the second Mig. "Sir, we were a little busy. I don't seem
to recall which  ..." He trailed off as Delgado's words came back to
him: Approaching Waterloo Red! Knock-it-offl. Waterloo Red!

"In that case, let me refresh your memory. According to the AWACS and
the cruiser's coverage of the incident, that second Mig was already
north of the thirty-second, get it? The pilot was already out of our
legal boundaries for engagement, but you were too fucking busy trying to
blow him away to realize that! When that Mig left the zone, you weren't
supposed to go after it and kill it with a Sidewinder! You were supposed
to fly back to your leader! And worst of all, your own RIO told you you
were approaching fucking Waterloo Red, dammit!"

Kevin was blushing, finally realizing his mistake. All he could do was
take the punishment. "Sorry, sir. I made a mistake. I was too busy
trying to fight off the Migs. I guess my RIO's words didn't register
until it was too late. I should have been listening more carefully. I'm
very sorry, sir."

"Sorry? You shouldn't be sorry, mister, you should be worried out of
your mind about your future in the Navy!"

Now it was Kevin's turn to get Cutter's round face stuck in front of
him. He could smell the CAG's strong aftershave. "Sir, I ... ah, I-"

"That's all for now. You're dismissed! You too, Shadow! Get out of my
face!" @i "Yes sir!" They turned and left the room.

"I don't think Crackers got the message, CAG," said Mcdeere after the
two pilots left the room.

"You don't? I thought he did. He does seem a little too triggerhappy. He
should have let that second Mig go, but that's typical of all newcomers.
He'll be all right. Just gotta shake him a little bit to make him put
things in perspective."

"I still don't think he realizes what he did wrong."

Cutter exhaled. "It's hard to knock-it-off when you're surrounded with
missile trails. You tend to think of surviving, not running. I mean, who
knows, Ghost? If he'd disengaged, they could have tried to run him down
again. Those Iraqis are tricky bastards. He might not have survived
another brace of missiles."

"He just makes me nervous ... if you know what I mean."

"What are you saying? That I should ground him indefinitely?"

Mcdeere raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. "Maybe for a little
while. I'm not sure yet, though. There's something about Crackers that
bothers me."

"Oh, c'mon, Ghost!" Cutter said, waving a hand in the air. "You and I
know that what he did was wrong, but it wasn't bad enough to deprive him
of a second chance. The Navy's invested a million bucks training him.
Besides, in your last report you did indicate that he was a natural."

"Well, yes. He is, but-"

"Then give him another chance. Remember, we need those young guns out
there where they belong."

"You really think he got the message, CAG?"

Cutter exhaled and nodded. "Yes, yes. He got it all right."

"Very well. I'll talk to him later, after he gets a chance to think
about it for a while."

"Good. That's all. You're dismissed."

Mcdeere reached for the door.

"Ghost?"

"Yes, CAG?"

"Two Migs, eh?"

"Yep.

"Damn. The kid's good."

Mcdeere didn't respond as he left, closing the door behind him.

Cursing himself for having overlooked the location on that second Mig,
Lieutenant Kevin Dalton paced back and forth in the tiny ten-by
twelve-foot stateroom he shared with Chico Delgado. Identical modular
storage units occupied the right and left sides of the room, where Kevin
and Delgado kept all personal belongings in the multiple drawers,
footlockers, and cabinets. Each unit sported a fold-down desktop with a
built-in fluorescent lamp. A small stainless steel sink under a mirror,
whose metal frame was painted pale green, stood next to one of the
modular units. A nineteen-inch Sony TV stood next to the other. Along
the back side of the room were steel bunks, also painted pale green,
with thin mattresses and gray woolen blankets. Kevin occupied the bottom
bunk'and Delgado the top one, which only gave the East L.A. native just
over three feet of clearance from a ceiling threaded with pipes, wires,
hoses, and ventilating ducts. All that furniture left them little space
to move around.

He drove a fist into his hand and went back in his mind through the
entire episode for the fourth time, realizing that he would have fired
the Sidewinder even if Delgado's warning had come a few seconds earlier.
The adrenaline had clouded his senses. He had been focused on only one
thing: killing that Mig. He could still see it in his mind every time he
closed his eyes. For that tiny fraction of time in Kevin's life, putting
a Sidewinder through the Mig's tailpipe had been all that mattered. No
warnings, no threats, no other inputs would have changed the outcome
during those last few seconds before he'd fired. Kevin then recalled how
stupidly he had asked Lancaster why he hadn't destroyed the second Mig.

Damn! Kevin thought, reaching the conclusion that air combat experience
meant not only the ability to fly a Tomcat and shoot down enemy planes,
but the wisdom to make rational split-second decisions while flying at
twice the speed of sound.

"The CAG ripped you a new asshole, didn't he, Crackers?"

Kevin turned around and found Delgado standing by the entrance. The
sleeves of his flight suit were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a
tattoo of a white bulldog's head with a patch over one eye on Delgado's
left forearm. It seemed out of place with his RIO's otherwise clean-cut
appearance. The Hispanic lieutenant had a long, thin face, which went
well with the rest of his slim yet muscular, body. Nearly four inches
shorter than Kevin, Delgado gave the impression of someone who had been
a marathon runner and then put on ten pounds of muscle by working out.
But what had caught Kevin's attention the first time they met, aside
from the odd-looking tattoo on his forearm, were Delgado's black eyes,
which showed an intensity absent in most people Kevin knew. At the same
time, the eyes were somewhat melancholy, like those belonging to someone
who had seen more than his share of violence. Violence Kevin knew did
not come from Delgado's four-year-old career in the Navy.

"How do you know he chewed me out?"

"Are you kiddin' me, man? You got a sad puppy-dog look all over your
face."

"He says I screwed up this morning."

"What do you think?"

"I'm afraid he's right."

"I bet you he nailed you for blowin' away that second Mig, didn't he?"

"Yep. And you warned me about it when I had the chance to stop."

"I know I did, but I wasn't sure if you actually heard me. You know,
with the dogfight and all."

"I heard, but I didn't listen. I was too busy trying to blow him away.
How come you didn't mention it afterward?"

"Dunno. Guess I got carried away, too. After all, the bastards tried to
nail us first. Besides, this was the first time that we got close enough
to an Iraqi to engage. They're always hidin' from us."

"Well, the harm's already done. We'll see what happens next."

Kevin sat down on his bed and stared at his reflection on the glass of a
framed eight-by-ten autographed photo of the Blue Angels, the Navy's
aerobatics team, hanging on the wall next to his bed. Kevin gazed into
his own brown eyes, the ends of which turned downward, giving a somber
look to his otherwise baby face. But today he saw more than just sadness
in his eyes. Kevin saw fear. "Dammit!" he said, giving voice to his
frustration. He had never tolerated personal failure very well.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much, man."

"I hope everyone forgets about this."

"I surely hope that you don't forget about this incident, Mr. Dalton."

Kevin and Delgado snapped to attention as Commander John Mcdeere
appeared in the doorway.

"At ease, gentlemen. Looks like the CAG's in a good mood, and he'll cut
you some slack. Personally, I wouldn't mind grounding you for a few
weeks to let you think about what you did out there, but we're short of
pilots. So, there you go. You're still flying."

"Thank you, sir."

The freckles on Mcdeere's face moved as his face hardened. He stared at
Kevin with his ice-cold blue eyes. "No, Crackers. Don't fucking thank
me. But do think about what you did, because the next time you might not
be so lucky; you could get your ass shot right out of the sky. If you
ever break a rule like this again and survive, you may be out of the
Navy and at the mercy of international law. You got me, mister?"

"Yes sir!"

"Good." Mcdeere began to leave, hesitated, and then looked at Kevin once
more. His voice was low and hoarse. "I'm gonna be watching you,
Crackers, and if you breathe the wrong way I'm gonna squash you like a
roach. Next time the president himself won't be able to help you. When
you look bad, my squadron looks bad, and when that happens, I look bad.
I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you do that. Next time, you better
listen to every fucking word your RIO's telling you. You follow me?"

Kevin remained silent for a few seconds as he struggled to absorb the
sting of Mcdeere's comments.

"Are you deaf, Lieutenant? I said, do you understand?"

With his jaw clenched, Kevin managed to mutter a low but audible "I
understand, sir."

"Good!" With that Mcdeere turned and left the room.

"Fuck me," Delgado murmured after he'd made sure Mcdeere was a fair
distance away. "I think the bastard's got it in for you, man. Bummer."

Kevin sat back down on his bunk and shook his head. "Dammit!

This sucks. I'm at the complete mercy of that son of a bitch."

"Go easy on yourself, Crackers."

Kevin lifted his head. The voice wasn't Delgado's but Lancaster's.

"Hello, sir," he said rising to face his executive officer. "I hope I
didn't get you into too much trouble today."

Lancaster stood by the entryway. He smiled. "Nah, the Ghost's just under
a lot of pressure these days."

"But, sir, we didn't-"

"I know that, and the CAG knows that too, but he also thinks you
overreacted. You should have let that second Mig go, Crackers. That was
your mistake ... but this was your first time and you have limited
experience. Those two factors are probably what saved your ass from
being suspended or grounded indefinitely. The CAG-unlike our beloved
squadron commanding officer- is a fair man. He just gave you another
shot. The message here's be careful."

"That's a lot easier said once you're on the ground and have plenty of
time to fully analyze an air battle, sir, but there's not much time to
react when you're dodging missiles and chasing Migs. I mean, one moment
of hesitation and-"

Lancaster laughed. "Crackers, Crackers, you always take things to the
other extreme. I know what goes on up there. I was there, remember? I'm
just telling you the same thing I've been telling you since the day I
taught you how to climb inside an F- 1 4 cockpit: you need to learn from
your mistakes. Next time you go up there, I bet you a hundred bucks
you'll keep an eye on your position and listen to your RIO, even when
pulling maximum gee in the ugliest of dogfights."

"You got that right, sir."

"All you have to do is use your best judgment. Think about what kind of
role you have and play it accordingly. I could have shot down that
second Mig easy. I had him locked up, but he was already north of the
zone, so I let him go. Believe me when I tell you I had to force myself
to let him go, but rules are rules. Do you get my point?"

"Guess so, sir."

"And don't think about Ghost. He's just worried about you staining his
perfect record. Besides, the guy's probably just pissed that he hasn't
had a chance to mix it up himself yet. And to tell you the truth, I
think he's sore that we did."

Kevin's black eyebrows dropped a bit. "You mean he's mad with us because
it wasn't him out there today?"

Lancaster's teeth shone bright against his skin as he grinned. "Could
be. You've got a lot to learn. See, the fastest way to move up in the
Navy's by doing extraordinary things-good things, of course-that have a
lot of visibility. Being a hero is on top of the list of things you can
do to quickly promote yourself. Flying a nice, quiet CAP isn't. So,
don't worry about Mcdeere. Really, the hell with him."

"But he's still in charge of-"

"Look, I've been around for a while, and I've seen more than my share of
Mcdeeres out there. They come and go, but good pilots always get ahead.
The bastard also had a chat with me, where he unloaded just like he did
with you. Ignore him. You 'just keep on doing what you do best and he
won't be able to touch you. I'm living proof of that."

Kevin breathed deeply and slowly nodded at Lancaster's reassuring words.
"Thank you, sir. That helps."

"Now," Lancaster continued, his square face turning serious, "that
doesn't mean that you should push your luck. If I were you, I would keep
a low profile for a couple of months until this thing fades away."

"You can count on that."

Lancaster checked his watch. "Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me,
I've got work to do," he said before he continued down the long hall.

"I guess you're gonna be all right, Crackers," said Delgado, rubbing his
stomach in obvious discomfort.

"Hope so ... say, why are you holding your belly?"

"Dunno, man. I think the chicken I had for lunch didn't go down too
well. It's probably a delayed reaction from all this excitement."

Delgado reached down and unzipped a compartment on the right leg of his
flight suit and removed a plastic bag. Kevin noticed it was filled with
a white powder.

"What's that?"

"It's a curatodo, man."

"A what?"

"A curatodo ... a cure-all type medicine. My grandmother gave it to me
before I left home."

::What's in it?"

Heck, who knows? All I know's that a tablespoon of this in warm water
will handle most headaches and stomach pains."

"Hmm ... sounds like something they oughta give to all pilots before and
after missions."

"Nope. You gotta be careful with this stuff. One tablespoon once in a
while and your aches will go bye-bye. More than that, and you'll get a
severe case of the shits."

Kevin laughed and headed for the door.

"Where you going'?"

"Outside. I need some fresh air."

Five minutes later, Lieutenant Kevin Dalton stepped up to Vulture's Row
on the carrier's island and gaze down at the relatively peaceful flight
deck. He watched more than sixty men completing a Foreign Object Damage
walk down, a flight deck ritual performed a few times each day to ensure
that there were no loose objects on the deck that could be sucked in by
a jet engine's air intake. Kevin knew that could result in disaster. The
men performing the FOD cleared the deck while pilots headed for their
fighters.

He shifted his gaze west, toward Saudi Arabia, barely visible in the
hazy late-afternoon sky. The Forrestal-class Ranger, displacing nearly
78,000 tons, steamed along a parallel course with the Saudi coastline.
In spite of Cutter's negative remarks-and Mcdeere's threats-today had
been a victory for the pilot in Kevin. All the years of training and
hard work had been put to the ultimate test for three brief minutes.
Kevin knew he had the talent to be a pilot from the day his flying
instructor had allowed him to solo a single-engine Cessna 172 Skyhawk on
his sixteenth birthday in his hometown of Melbourne, Florida. His
progress and enthusiasm continued, and a year later, after acing his
private pilot's written exam, Kevin successfully passed his practical
exam and fulfilled the first of a long string of dreams.

His father, a chemical engineer, wanted Kevin to pursue a similar
engineering degree, something that did not appeal to Kevin. After
repeated arguments with his father and a couple of marginal college
semesters taking courses he loathed, Kevin decided to leave home and try
his luck in the Navy. As a college dropout, the Navy did not consider
him serious enough to pilot a multimillion-dollar craft and gave him a
choice: finish college and then join the officer's training course, or
start as an enlisted man, put in the time, and then apply for the chance
to become a pilot, and hope his application was taken seriously. Kevin,
not a gambler by nature, decided to finish college first. Refusing to
let his father continue to run his life, Kevin attended the Florida
Institute of Technology, working nights and going to school during the
day, until he obtained a degree in aeronautical engineering three years
after he had walked out of the Navy's recruitment office. Three months
later, he arrived at Pensacola Naval Air Station, nicknamed the Cradle
of Naval Aviation, where he started his basic officer training. Here, in
addition to surviving the Navy's version of boot camp, Candidate Kevin
Dalton also endured the Aviation Physiology Training unit, where he went
through decompression chamber sessions, spatial disorientation training,
simulated aircraft ejection exercises, and learned how to survive
ejections over water and land. Upon graduation, Ensign Kevin Dalton
started his formal flight training in a T-34C, a two-seat
turboproppowered trainer. From there he moved up to the Rockwell T-2
Buckeye, a general-purpose jet trainer. In the T-2 Kevin learned all
there was to be known about carrier operations, from taking off to
landing on a carrier's deck. After he had mastered the essentials of
naval aviation, Kevin moved to the Mcdonnell Douglas TA-4J Skyhawk for
the remainder of his "advanced flight training."

With 280 hours of flight time, Kevin headed for the RAG, which in his
case meant an assignment to F- 1 4 pilot training at NAS Miramar in San
Diego, California, where, under Lancaster's guidance, he flew an
additional one hundred hours and quickly rose to become first in his
class. Kevin never flew slow if he could fly fast. He never made a
shallow turn if he could cut a tight one, even at the expense of pulling
maximum g. His degree in aeronautics gave him a better understanding of
aircraft specifications. He knew that aircraft manufacturers only
published a conservative version of their specs, allowing themselves
some margin for safety. He used that knowledge to "safely" push his
machine beyond the envelope to achieve his goals. This attitude earned
him his nickname during his early days with the Navy. However, Kevin
learned the hard way that top-notch flying is not all that was required
to be the best. During a simulated air combat in his last week of
training at Miramar, Kevin made the mistake of leaving his flight leader
to pursue a bandit and got shot down. He couldn't make up the below
average grade on the flight and was awarded second place during
graduation. That setback seemed negligible when compared to being
grounded today.

TO Kevin, life was a constant challenge, a never-ending string of
obstacles he felt compelled to overcome in order to truly succeed in
life.

But obstacles come in different shapes and forms, thought Kevin as a
fully loaded F-14A taxied to cat one. The trick, he reasoned, was to
figure out which obstacles really mattered and go after them with
uncompromising resolve, setting short-term goals which, strung with one
another, would eventually enable him to conquer that long-term goal
which was the obstacle itself. So far he considered himself lucky for
having been able to achieve all his dreams.

Kevin watched a green-shirted "hookman" run forward in a crouch and
kneel beside the F-14A, where he engaged the nose tow-a bar protruding
from the Tomcat's nose-wheel-to the catapult shuttle. The hookman then
looked over to the edge of the flight deck, where the cat operator was
holding up his right index finger. Ready on the cat. The catapult
officer, a yellowvest standing in front of the Tomcat, held up his hands
in fists. Brakes on. Then the yellowvest gave the hand signal. Brakes
offandfullpower! The hookman ran clear of the F-14A as the cat officer
issued a few more hand signals to the pilot before snapping to attention
and saluting. Finally the cat officer gracefully sank and touched the
deck before stretching his right arm toward the Rangers bow.

The blazing sun slowly disappeared over the horizon, transforming the
vivid orange-stained sky into one of lesser hues. Kevin watched the heat
waves from the Tomcat roaring off the carrier's deck. The scorching
blast of its Pratt & Whitney turbofans crashed against the
saltwater-cooled jet blast deflector as the cat officer solemnly waved
at the departing jet. Kevin Dalton was proud to be a part of the Navy.

CORRIDORS OF POWER Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.

-Mao Tse-Tung

THE WHITE HOUSE. Day One. 0830 Local Time.

President Bill Clinton sat on his high-backed leather chair behind his
wooden desk just in front of the Armorlite bulletproof windows facing
the White House lawn. The chair, internally layered with sheets of
Kevlar, provided the president with additional protection against
bullets a terrorist might fire through the Armorlite glass.

Across from his desk, beyond the presidential seal embroidered on the
light blue carpet in the center of the oval-shaped room, were two
cream-colored sofas facing each other. The director of Central
Intelligence, the secretary of state, the defense secretary, and Air
Force General Kenneth Draper, whom Clinton had named undersecretary for
Middle Eastern affairs, quietly sat, waiting for the president to speak.
The president, intelligent blue eyes narrowed and shiny, lips tightly
pursed, read the President's Daily Brief, a top-secret intelligence t
document prepared by the CIA, containing briefs of the latest activities
at home and abroad.

Pinching the bottom of his chin, President Clinton finished the section
on the Middle East situation, briefly nodded to himself, and got up. The
others in the room also stood up, but the president waved them to sit
back down while he walked to one of the tall windows next to the Stars
and Stripes behind his desk.

A stiff wind blew dark clouds over the nation's capital, quickly turning
a clear sky into one as black as night. Flashes of lightning streaked
across the billowing clouds. Mist and drizzle gave way to heavy rain
crashing down on the morning traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Hands behind his back, President Clinton watched the storm gather
strength. The rain pounded on the thick glass. Branches of nearby trees
swirled at the mercy of the wind. Secret Service men in overcoats ran
for cover.

Strong storm.

The president, dressed in a chalk-striped dark suit, breathed in deeply
through his mouth, slowly exhaling through his nostrils. A storm was
definitely gathering strength in the Middle East again. The storm of
Saddam Hussein.

The president briefly closed his eyes. The situation was getting out of
control in Iraq. His current policy of flexing some muscles by sending
in troops and heavy hardware to show Saddam that the Clinton
administration would not put up with Iraq's noncompliance of U.N.
Security Council resolutions didn't seem adequate anymore. The CIA had
in disputable proof that Saddam was on the verge of assembling nuclear
weapons, which probably was the reason why the Iraqi leader continued to
prevent U.N. inspectors from doing their job. According to the briefings
and the dozens of meetings the Commander in Chief had had with his top
advisors in the past two weeks, the Iraqi president had obtained Russian
nuclear technology and components. The president felt that perhaps
Saddam's latest actions-ordering Migs into the no-fly zone-had an
ulterior motive than just to directly annoy him. Does he have them
assembled already? Is Saddam trying to provoke an American attack so
that he can respond with his nukes?

And to make matters worse, the recent terrorist bombing in the
underground parking garage beneath the World Trade Center twin towers,
in the heart of New York City, had sent a clear message to President
Clinton: Beware, America, you are not isolated from the rest of the
world. The president shivered at the thought of someone like Saddam in
possession of nuclear weapons, which the Iraqi leader could use not only
to blast half the Middle East off the map but could also secrete one
into the United States.

The president, eyes half-shut, looked at his right hand, the one he had
used to shake President John F. Kennedy's hand in 1963, and he made a
tight fist with it. Just like Khrushchev during the Cuban Missile
Crisis, Saddam Hussein understood only one language. Only one.

Turning around and walking to the front of his desk, where he leaned
against it and placed both hands on its smooth surface, the president
silently probed his top advisors, starting with his secretary of state.

The gray-haired veteran diplomat, wearing a dark blue suit, crossed his
legs and raised his heavy brows, regarding the president with filmy
eyes. Deep creases of decision folded in the secretary's face as he
said, "Mr. President, Saddam Hussein plays by the same rules used by any
other dictator still in power in that region. Some scholars call them
the rules of Hamma."

The secretary paused while Clinton crossed his arms and stared off in
the distance. In 1982, Syrian President Hafez al-Assad ordered the
destruction of Hamma, a city located 120 miles northwest of Damascus,
and believed to be the headquarters of the Muslim Brotherhood, a Muslim
fundamentalist organization hostile to the government of Assad. The
Brotherhood was accused by Assad of car bombings and other terrorist
attacks, including plots to overthrow his government. The Syrian
president decided to show everyone what happens to those who dared defy
his rule. In the first week of February 1982, Sovietmade T-64 tanks,
helicopters, and artillery units leveled Hamma's Muslim neighborhoods,
bringing down buildings and burying anyone in the way. An army of
bulldozers and steamrollers finished up the job, leveling the rubble.
The death toll reached the tens of thousands.

President Clinton gazed into the secretary's eyes once again.

"Saddam Hussein is some piece of work, Mr. President. He has survived
because he follows this basic rule when dealing with his enemies. He is
not only brutal but smart. He has no friends, only enemies and agents.
He has set up several intelligence agencies within his government to spy
on each other, on the army, the air force, and even on his own
Republican Guard. Saddam is very dangerous because he is an extremist
who knows where to stop. He usually knows exactly how much he can get
away with and always stops short. He knows when to reach out and when to
hunker down. He doesn't care if he loses half a million soldiers as long
as he remains in control. He loves to defy us because we are a
superpower, and in doing so he becomes a superpower in the eyes of the
Arab world, for only a superpower can defy another and survive to tell
the story. And right now he feels on top of the world because he has
outlasted the leaders of the countries that attacked him during Desert
Storm."

President Clinton said, "And your recommendation?"

The secretary crossed his legs before turning his gaze back to the
president and saying, "Sir, if Saddam is indeed assembling nukes, and if
he is successful, we will have a serious problem on our hands, not only
abroad, but also at home. Remember that a tactical nuclear weapon the
twelve-kiloton class that fits inside the tip of a 155mm artillery
shell-can be easily stored in the trunk of just about any midsize car.
My recommendation is to spare no expense to find the location where he
is assembling the nukes. No level of diplomacy or economic sanctions is
going to work here, Mr. President. We must use every possible means at
our disposal to find them ..

"Without telegraphing our intentions."  "Finished?" asked the president. The
secretary nodded.

The president turned to his defense secretary. "What's the situation
over there?"

The defense secretary, a former House Armed Services chairman, was a
large man with a round face, a large creased forehead extending well
past the hairline of his youth, and thinning white hair. Rearranging his
glasses, he locked eyes with the president. "We had the incident
yesterday, when our guys nailed three Migs that had ventured south of
the thirty-second. Aside from that, all other air missions have been
uneventful. Our AWACS have picked up nothing besides those Migs. Looks
like Saddam has the rest of his air force hunkered down. His army,
however, appears to be getting restless."

Clinton reached behind him and snagged the President's Daily Briefing,
waving it at the defense secretary. "This ground activity ... these
Iraqi troop deployments south of the thirty-second parallel. Exactly
what are we facing here?"

His defense secretary turned to the director of Central Intelligence,
Craig Kettler, a tall and fairly overweight man with a full head of
unkempt gray hair, a double chin, and skin coarse and pitted from a case
of bad acne during his youth. "That information is only two hours old,"
replied the fifty-year-old director. "The last KH-11 pass over southern
Iraq showed elements of Saddam's Republican Guard slowly moving south of
the thirty-second parallel. At this rate, they will reach the border
with Kuwait and Saudi Arabia in four days.

"How many?"

"About sixty thousand men and four hundred tanks."

Clinton shook his head. Saddam had not gotten the message from the last
bombing several months ago, when two hundred planes from the United
States, Britain, and France attacked Talil Air Base, and SAM positions
in Amara and Basra.

Then again, the president reflected, Saddam didn't get the message from
Operation Desert Storm, either. According to diplomatic sources in
Baghdad, the air strikes that followed the 1991 Gulf War-and the war
itself had actually helped Saddam politically, by showing his own people
that even a coalition of all the nations of the world couldn't oust
Saddam from power.

The president turned toward his defense secretary. "What is your take on
Iraq's latest move?"

The defense secretary pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose with
an index finger. He turned his eyes, sunk in purple sockets and
bloodshot with fatigue, toward the president. "I think he is trying to
draw us back in, sir."

Clinton grimaced. "And what is your suggested response?"

"I recommend a strong response, Mr. President. By that I mean a very
strong air strike using not just F-117s and F-111s, but also B-52
bombers, sir. Let's take out most of his advancing troops, several power
stations, refineries, air fields, and radar installations. Let's do
something more than just damage a few planes and SAM installations.
Saddam laughed at our last strike several months back, sir. It did
nothing to damage him strategically. I feel this time around we need to
send Saddam a clear message that this administration will not tolerate
any violations of the U.N. resolutions, and that there will be more
punishment coming if he doesn't behave. It's the only language he
understands, sir."

"I object to that, Mr. Secretary," cut in General Kenneth Draper.

"And why is that, General?" the defense secretary asked.

At forty-nine years of age, General Kenneth Draper-he preferred people
to address him as general and not as undersecretary-had a pink-and-white
face, thick backswept silver hair, thin lips curving down at the ends,
and a pair of light gray eyes, which stared back at the defense
secretary with matching intensity. Waving a hand in the air while
leaning forward on the sofa, Draper said:

"I object to such an air strike for two important reasons. First, an air
strike will only serve to improve Saddam's popularity at home. At this
point in the game, I hesitate on using air strikes as a weapon to punish
Saddam simply because air strikes have not really worked that well in
the past. Saddam always finds a way to turn them around ... you know,
use them as a propaganda tool by showing pictures of dead women and
children allegedly killed by our bombs. Even after the strongest of
soundings during Desert Storm, Saddam always managed to pull his country
back together again.

"My second reason is actually far more important than the first, for it
concerns the possibility that Saddam has already assembled his nukes,
and he is simply waiting for the opportunity to use them. Maybe he is
trying to provoke us, to draw us in and then drop a warhead on our
troops." Draper paused for a few seconds to let his words sink in. He
finished with, "Those, Mr. Secretary, are my two reasons why we should
not order an air strike on Iraq at this time."

The room fell silent. Draper leaned back, drumming a finger on the arm
of the sofa. President Clinton crossed his arms, dropped his gaze and
stared at the presidential seal through half-closed eyes. Draper was
right on the ball. Without knowing how close Saddam was from completing
the assembly of the weapons, without even knowing where he was
assembling them, Clinton had to play very, very cautiously, or risk
nuclear retaliation.

The president turned to the director of the CIA. "Who do we have over
there looking into the whereabouts of these weapons?"

The CIA director cleared his throat. "His name is Robert Bourdeaux, sir.
He's our top senior operations officer on the Covert Action Staff. Since
Operation Desert Storm he has recruited a number of agents inside Iraq,
including a few Kurdish guerrillas, with whom he trades small arms for
information. He also worked for our satellite imagery division for a
number of years. A well-rounded and seasoned officer."

"I'm assuming that you also have your best people in Langley working on
this?" the president asked.

"Yes, Mr. President," responded the director.

Clinton nodded. "Very well, gentlemen. I want hourly reports on the
whereabouts of these Iraqi deployments south of the thirty-second. In
the meantime, put our troops on full alert, but don't mobilize anyone
from their current posts. I want our infantry to continue with their
ground exercises. I want Air Force and Navy planes to continue flying
their patrol missions, but I want to take a more conservative approach
in regards to rules of engagement. If an Iraqi Mig violates the no-fly
zone, I want him escorted back north, not shot down without warning
unless he poses an imminent threat to us or our allies. I want our boys
to fire only if fired upon."

The president slowly scanned the faces of all present. "Keep in mind the
big picture here. At this moment, we don't want to do anything that
might trigger a nuclear response from Saddam until we know exactly where
he stands on the assembly of the weapons."

With that, the president pressed a button on his desk, and a few seconds
later two poker-faced Secret Service men, wearing discrete earphones
attached to wires that coiled into their dark suits, entered the room
and escorted the group out.

President Bill Clinton walked behind his desk but didn't sit down. Tight
fists pressed against the polished wooden surface of his desk, the
president peered at the eight-by-ten framed photo of Hillary and
Chelsea. He could not let Saddam get away with this game anymore,
especially with the possibility of nuclear weapons brought onto the
field. Weapons which had definitely promoted Saddam Hussein from being a
major pain in the butt to a major menace.

Clinton hated the Iraqi president for dictating the terms of this round,
forcing him to react to Saddam's moves. But what choice do I have?

The president knew it was well within his power to order an air strike,
even a large one, and blast half of the Iraqi troops moving south. But
what if that's exactly what he wants me to do? What if saddam is just
looking for an excuse to nuke half the Middle East?

No. Clinton couldn't do that. Saddam might be able to sacrifice
thousands of troops in the flick of an eye, but President Bill Clinton
had a much larger responsibility to his people, to his soldiers, than
just sending them into a battle they couldn't win. He had to find out
the real status of Saddam's weaponry. Attacking before knowing that
would be completely irresponsible.

BAGHDAD, IRAQ. Day One. 1800 Local Time.

While shooting a propaganda film, Iraqi President Saddam Hussein stood
in the middle of the reception hall surrounded by his closest generals
and bodyguards. Wearing a new light brown uniform and black beret for
the camera crew to his near left, and with his Russian Makarov secured
inside a shiny black leather holster attached to the belt of his
uniform, the Iraqi leader held out his right arm slightly in front of
him as one of dozens of officers of his Republican Guard and Air Force,
as well as delegates from Russia and China, and a number of bankers,
black market arms dealers, and oil businessmen lined up at the other end
of the long hall, walked toward him. The approaching major's clicking
steps on the brown marble floors echoed hollowly in the large room,
decorated with fifteen-foot-tall portraits of Saddam. Iraqi flags hung
from the cathedral ceiling. It A general standing to Saddam's right
whispered the name of the young officer, and Saddam, giving the major a
smile while shaking his hand, said warmly, "May Allah be with you, Major
Fahim Said."

The young major's eyes filled. "And with you, Great One."

Saddam's smile remained frozen even after the major did an about-face
and headed down the other side of the hall.

Next came a Syrian banker Saddam had dealt with personally on a number
of occasions, most recently during the months that followed the war of
1991. The tall, thin banking executive with salt-and-pepper hair, thin
mustache, and deep-green eyes had secretly provided the Iraqi president
with an enormous line of credit to help finance the extensive repairs
needed to restore electricity and water services throughout cities in
central Iraq.

"It is good to see your beautiful country smiling again."

Saddam, his smile a bit broader now, gazed deeply into the eyes of the
banker. This man understands the needs of my people. "And much of it is
due to your help, my friend," Saddam responded, vigorously pumping the
banker's hand. "The will of Allah shall be done in the end, and I am His
instrument of justice."

"May I live to see the day when the great Satan and all its allies pay
for what they did to this land!"

"And you shall, my friend. And you shall."

Taking in a lungful of air, the banker nodded before turning around and
walking away, to be replaced by another friend, a retired Ukrainian
colonel now living in Jordan. The general standing next to Saddam waved
over a short, thin man wearing a pair of silver-framed glasses and a tan
suit, who had been sitting behind the video crew. He was one of saddam's
personal translators.

"It is good to see you again, Colonel Yakolev. Were the arrangements
I've made for you adequate?" Saddam asked. Colonel Andrei Yakolev had
played a key role in the secret transfer of Russian nuclear technology
to Iraq. In return, Saddam had given the colonel the equivalent of two
million American dollars plus a new life in Jordan.

The translator spoke in Russian to Colonel Yakolev and, nodding, the
Ukrainian colonel said something to the translator while his eyes
remained level with Saddam's.

The translator then turned to the Iraqi president and said, "Great One,
the colonel is grateful for your generosity. Everything is as you had
promised."

After another glance into Saddam's eyes, the colonel left, and a young
officer replaced him. The general whispered a name and gave Saddam a
small white box. The Iraqi president took the box in his hands and said,
"Lieutenant Zahur Khazanni, your efforts to crush the Kurdish rebellion
in the northern region have been commendable. Your commander informs me
that you have shown great courage and valor against the enemy, and he
has recommended you to receive the Republican League of Honor award."

While gazing deeply into the wide black eyes of the nervous young
lieutenant, Saddam Hussein removed a small purple medal from the box and
pinned it on the officer's left shirt pocket.

"May Allah and the spirit of Islam guide you, Lieutenant Khazanni!"

"Insallah, Great One!" responded the officer before turning around and
walking away.

Another officer approached him. This time, the general didn't need to
whisper a name to Saddam, whose face suddenly became rigid. The recently
promoted general walking in his direction was Qazi Ali, a rising star in
the Air Force for his recent victories against Kurdish rebelspand to
Saddam's fury, a mild critic of Saddam's latest deployment south of the
thirty-second parallel. He had also criticized the recent order to
violate the no-fly zone, which had just resulted in three downed Migs.

Saddam's stern face quickly softened. General Ali, a short man in his
late forties, with a large defiant mouth, heavy nose, and brown eyes
behind rimless glasses came to attention in front of the Iraqi president
and shook his hand. A neatly trimmed mustache moved as General Ali gave
Saddam a broad grin. "Greetings, Great One."

Saddam returned the smile and said in a low, hoarse voice, "Sabah
al-kair, General. I have heard your comments on the latest deployment of
forces south."

Ali pushed out his thick lips while Saddam regarded him quizzically.
With his bulging brown eyes showing a glint of fear, General Ali tried
to remain calm. "Great One, I fear that our latest deployment of forces
might lead to major losses at a time when we are still rebuilding our
army Saddam nodded. "I see. Perhaps we should discuss this matter in
private. I am most interested in listening to your opinion."

Ali's eyes brightened at the comment. "I will be honored, Great One."

Without another word, and with the rest of the crowd gathered at the
reception hall looking on, Saddam turned around, followed by his staff
and General Ali. The camera crew stopped filming as the group walked up
to a set of large wooden double doors on the right side of the reception
hall. An armed soldier standing guard opened it, letting through only
Saddam and General Ali.

Once inside, Saddam pulled out his sidearm, cocked it, and leveled it at
the shocked general, who took a few steps back. "I beg your forgiveness,
oh, Great One. I never meant any harm with my remarks. I was just
concerned about our troops."

Saddam lowered the Makarov and studied the general with faint distaste
before pointing to a nearby chair. General Ali sat down as ordered and
nervously crossed his legs.

"Who is your leader, General Ali?"

Rubbing his hands, Ali kept shifting his weight on the chair, crossing
and uncrossing his legs. "You are, of course, my president." he
responded. His chin trembling.

"That is right, General. I am the Supreme One. I am the Great One. And
do you know why I have remained in power for so long?"

Dropping his gaze to the marble floor, Ali slowly shook his head.

"Because it is the will of Allah that I remain in power to lead my
people to greatness. But there are many evils who will try to prevent me
from accomplishing my holy work. And evils are not only the Americans,
general. There are also Iraqi evils, like those who oppose my mandates.
It is my duty to eliminate such evils for the greater cause."

Without another word, Saddam Hussein trained the Makarov on General Ali,
who remained still, his narrowed eyes on Saddam's. The Iraqi leader
cocked the weapon and fired once. The report seemed amplified inside the
small room. The bullet crashed through Ali's glasses, striking him in
the right eye, exploding through the back of his cranium in a cloud of
bloody debris, and shoving him back against the chair.

While Ali's left arm and leg shook for a few seconds, Saddam slowly
holstered the weapon, wondering if the American president was man enough
to do the same with an insubordinate officer. Somehow he doubted it.
President Clinton was soft and predictable. Saddam could feel it.
American presidents, especially one who not only had not been in any war
but had refused to go to the Vietnam War for fear of getting hurt, could
not pose a serious threat to him. The evil George Bush was different,
Saddam reflected. The former president had been an insane who did not
know his limitations, but Allah's justice had prevailed man the end.
Saddam was still in power, while Bush had been voted out of in power by
his own people.

President Bill Clinton. Saddam managed a thin smile. The photogenic
president was too much of a humanitarian to stomach the death of his own
men. For the same reason he had dodged the Vietnam draft, Clinton would
most likely back down if confronted with enough force. Saddam could feel
it in his bones, and that feeling made him smile, because now more than
ever he felt he could really be a powerful force against American
imperialism-not only in this region of the world. but also in their own
United States.

The bomb that rocked the World Trade Center would be mere fireworks when
compared to the weapons of mass destruction Saddam Hussein envisioned
smuggling into the United States. But not just yet, he reflected while
holstering the Makarov. The Iraqi leader would complete his plan to
assemble the missiles first. Later on, he would get his scientists to
construct two additional nuclear warheads, which he would then sneak
into New York City and Washington, D.C.

Soon, Mr. Clinton. Soon my weapons of mass destruction will be
assembled, and then you will know the meaning of the word horror. You
will experience what your predecessor made me experience during
Operation Desert Storm.

As the dead body of General Ali stared back at Saddam with one eye, the
Iraqi president approached him, spat on him, and murmured, "Your death
will serve as an example to those who think about challenging my
command."

With that, Saddam Hussein turned around and walked back into the
reception hall, whispering to the guard by the door to get someone to
come and clean the mess inside. He still had a long list of guests
wanting to pay their respects. The camera crew resumed filming a smiling
Saddam Hussein.

KURDS There the Greeks spent a happy night, with plenty to eat, talking
about the struggle now past. For they had been seven days passing
through the country of the Kurds, fighting all the time, and they had
suffered worse things at the hands of the Kurds than all the King of
Persia, and his general, Tissaphernes, could do to them.

-Anabasis of Xenophon (400 B.C.)

SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day One. 1900 Local Time.

Firmly clutching a weathered AK-47 assault rifle, Ishmael Mohammed
Barzani moved swiftly under a crystalline moonless night in Eastern
Mesopotamia, all the while being sure to blend his sounds with those of
the desert. Stopping his quiet advance, he warily scanned the sand dunes
in front of him and listened carefully before moving ahead once again.

The short, tight jacket Ishmael wore was drenched with sweat, just like
his baggy trousers. Perspiration rolled down from his soaked black hair
and into his eyes, stinging them. He blinked several times and tried to
readjust his vision as the last of the day's heat left what had been
scorching sands hours ago. Ishmael felt a cool, refreshing breeze
swirling down from the high plains of the Zagros Mountains behind him
and thanked Allah for allowing him this simple pleasure.

A jolt of pain from his rotten teeth and diseased gums caused him to
grimace before he shivered it away. He continued moving through the
night, keeping the weapon ready at all times. His teeth had began
decaying a few years before, when the Iranian dentist that used to visit
his village once a year was arrested by the Iraqis and hanged on
espionage charges. Since then he had steadily lost several teeth. The
remaining ones, many of them blackened, should just as well fall out, he
decided. Eating anything solid had grown to be a very painful
experience. Lucky for him, his slim body didn't need much nourishment to
function. He didn't need much sleep, either. Ishmael could walk for days
with little food or water. He had to. He was a Kurd, and that alone
meant a hard life. His face, however, did not show the harsh life he had
endured. Ishmael was a handsome man, with a thin mustache, tanned face,
and a pair of intelligent, sunken, brown eyes.

Ishmael was a Kurdish guerrilla, but more than that, he was a Barzani:
Allah's last true warrior, he reflected. Ishmael was a direct decedent
of Mullah Mustafa Barzani, the leader who had inspired the nine-year
Kurdish Revolt that started in 1943. The Mullah and his tribe of warring
Barzanis, feared and hated by other Kurdish tribes, had established the
short-lived but glorious Kurdish Republic of Mahabad. Ishmael still
remembered with great detail his father's stories of how the Soviets had
withdrawn from Persia and allowed the Persian Army to march against the
young Kurdish nation, killing many of its citizens and forcing the rest
to retreat to the mountains. Fifteen years later, still under the
leadership of Mullah Barzani, the Kurds had organized an armd resistance
against Iraqi rule. After a decade of fighting, Iraq's Baath party had
attempted to pacify the rebellious Kurds in 1971 with an offer for
autonomy, but the agreement didn't hold. During the mid-seventies, the
Kurds had resumed their fighting, this time backed by the Shah of Iran,
who had simply been using them as a bargaining chip against Saddam
Hussein in order to get Iraq to agree to share sovereignty of the Shatt
al-Arab waterway, which provided access to the Persian Gulf. Without
Iran's backing, Saddam had crushed the rebels and forced them back into
the mountains. Years later, after Operation Desert Storm, the Kurdish
brotherhood had tried to overthrow the ruthless dictator, but again, the
forces of Saddam had squashed the rebels in days. That had been a great
defeat for the Kurds, but not powerful enough to destroy the Kurdish
spirit of independence. It had been only one of several times when
Kurdish hopes for a homeland had ended in disaster, the reason Kurdish
guerrillas called themselves peshmerga-those who face death. Slowly, the
exiled tribes joined forces and began fighting once more.

The'mullah was Ishmael's inspiration. Peshmerga was his way of life.

Another bolt of pain made him close his eyes for a moment. Another molar
had become loose. Ishmael moved it with his tongue at the price of yet
another sharp jolt. I will have to pull it out before eating again,
Ishmael thought as he heard Abdul's footsteps to his right. Abdul
Mozakhu was a large Iranian-born Kurd, who this night alone had silently
killed two men with his bare hands. They weren't men, Ishmael noted,
they were the blasphemous enemy belonging to the same government who had
so brutally dropped mustard gas over Ishmael's village three years ago,
killing the last of his relatives. That blow had been a large one for
Ishmael, when he had lost his younger brother Jasseer to the blistering
gas, but an even larger and more scarring loss had occurred five years
before, when the same government forces had dropped lethal cyanide gas
on his hometown of Halabja, near the Iranian border. His wife Raniya and
their two daughters had perished there. He and most of the village men
had gone to the Dilaya River region in search of fish and dates and were
spared from the hell that lasted but a single minute. Ishmael's only
consolation had been that they all had died in their sleep; none had
suffered except for the living. That, he reasoned, was why Allah had put
him and everyone else on this earth: to test one's character and to
prove one's worthiness to enter that sacred kingdom beyond this world.
In his own mind, Ishmael had proven he was worthy of Allah's kingdom
time and time again. Tonight he prepared himself to prove it once more.

He reached over and placed his hands on Abdul's massive shoulders and
looked into the green eyes of someone that could have easily been his
enemy, had it not been for the fact that a Kurd was a Kurd, and not an
Iraqi, Iranian, or Turk. The Kurdish brotherhood, whose number amounted
to several million, were members of different tribes which inhabited the
sprawling mountainous territory encompassed by the Black Sea, the
Caspian Sea, the Persian Gulf, and the Mediterranean. They were united
by a common culture and language, a Persianderivative tongue. The name
Kurd had been given to them by the conquering and evangelizing Arabs in
the seventh century, who had tried to convert the tribes to Islam but
had soon realized their mistake and had left the Kurds alone in the
mountains. With time, new armies would arrive and try to either conquer
or eliminate the Kurds once and for all, and again the Kurds would
manage to survive and continue their long struggle for independence: a
struggle which had brought them closer together than any other group in
this volatile region of the globe.

"You look troubled, Isha, " Abdul said.

"Not troubled but concerned, my brother. There is not much time before
they arrive," Ishmael responded, accidentally moving the loose tooth
with his tongue as he spoke. He tensed from the pain.

"We have great warriors among us. You mustn't worry." Abdul turned
around and faced two dozen battle-hardened Kurdish guerrillas. "Look at
them. They are indeed Allah's Army!"

Nodding his head, ignoring the pain, Ishmael lifted his left hand up in
the air and made a fist. Instantly, the well-trained rebels spread to
both sides of him and lay on the cool sand, weapons ready, facing the
ten-foot-tall chain-link fence of the well-camouflaged ammunition, food,
and medicine distribution center for government forces in the area.

It appeared deserted, save for a few floodlights, the monotone humming
of a gasoline-powered electric generator, and a lonely guard on the far
right side of the fence next to the only gate into the small complex.
Ishmael looked at Abdul one last time, dropped to a crouch, and slowly
moved forward, silently closing the two-hundred-foot gap between himself
and the sentry. Ishmael had expected to find the complex underguarded.
Most of the government soldiers assigned to this base had been deployed
to the northern city of Mandali a few hours ago, where rumors of a
rebellion at the region's oil wells had alarmed the government. Ishmael
smiled, again grateful that Allah had given him the intelligence to
contrive such diversion. The Mullah would have been proud of him. Soon
after the soldiers had left, Ishmael and his group arrived 'n their
stolen Rover four-by-fours, which they'd parked behind sand dunes a few
hundred meters back.

He now crawled over the sandy terrain next to the fence, slowly closing
in on the guard, who had just lit a cigarette. Ishmael could dimly see
the face of a boy not older than his younger brother. The smile on
Ishmael's face faded away when memories flashed in front of his eyes of
the blistered corpse of what had once been Jasseer, brought to him three
days after the attack. Jasseer. He clenched his teeth in anger, and a
flash of pain raced across his teeth and into his temples, bringing him
back to the present.

The guard brought one hand up, took another draw on the cigarette, then
replaced his slim hand on the barrel of a shiny RPK Russian-made light
submachine gun. Its long thirty-round magazine, Ishmael observed, curved
under the weapon in the same manner as the magazine clip did on the
AK-47 slung across his back. But tonight he would not use the
Kalashnikov. Ishmael reached down into his waist sash and removed a
ten-inch stainless steel knife he had taken from an Iraqi officer Abdul
had killed a year ago. He placed the blade sideways in his mouth,
careful to press on it only with his dry lips. He continued crawling
forward.

The young guard, Ishmael noted, had his back against the fence,
obviously expecting intruders to approach from the field surrounding the
complex. But that assumption would cost him his life on this cool,
windy-onight. For that assumption to work, there should have been guards
all around the perimeter, not just on one side.

Inch after agonizing inch, Ishmael soundlessly got to within six feet of
the sentry, still smoking peacefully and looking up at the stars. With
the lightning speed of a desert sandstorm, Ishmael clutched the blade's
wooden handle, recoiled and lunged. The sentry began to turn around when
the blade entered his throat at an angle, cutting through the larynx.
Oblivious to the expulsion of air and blood, and using muscles toughened
by two decades of fighting, Ishmael drove the knife up through the jaw
and into the guard's brain.

The young man's dying eyes stared at him, probably not understanding why
he had to die so young. They remained there for eternal seconds, eyes
locked, the guard's hands grasping Ishmael's as his warm blood ran down
Ishmael's hand and forearm. Ishmael retrieved his blade when he saw no
life left in those brown eyes.

"May Allah be merciful to you," he whispered as he dragged the body down
the side of the fence and hid it behind a low sand dune, out of sight
from anyone inside the complex.

While he cleaned off the blood from the knife and his own hand, Ishmael
looked back at Abdul and pointed to the young soldier. Abdul nodded and
signaled a young rebel to come with him to the fence. The two raced
across the front of the perimeter and reached Ishmael's position in less
than a minute. Ishmael stared at the young boy's bright eyes and placed
both hands on his shoulders.

"Jasseer, I renamed you after my lost brother the same day your parents
were killed. That day you swore revenge against those who had killed
them, and I believed you. It was that internal fire that compelled me to
let you join our holy crusade. Tonight is your night to leave childhood
memories behind and become a man." Ishmael pointed to the young dead
soldier and then toward the complex's gate.

Jasseer's eyes showed understanding and determination to obey his
leader's orders. Without another word, Abdul helped him get undressed as
Ishmael removed the uniform from the dead soldier.

A minute later, Jasseer stepped away from them and casually walked
toward the gate holding the fifteen-pound weapon just as Ishmael had
shown him-right hand across the front with his index finger fixed around
the trigger and left hand under the base of the light barrel.

Ishmael saw Jasseer reach the gate and try to open it, but it was locked
from the inside. The young man squeezed his hands through the openings
of the chain-link fence, but could not reach the bolt. Confused, he
looked back at Ishmael and Abdul for advice.

Ishmael motioned him to crawl over the fence. Jasseer slung the weapon
across his back and pulled himself up the small fence. Using the RPK to
pull down the single string of barbed wire on top, Jasseer quietly went
over and down the other side, where he reached for the bolt and pulled
it, unlocking the sliding gate.

Ishmael and Abdul ran to him when they saw the small boy struggling to
slide the heavy gate. They were thirty feet from him when Ishmael
watched in helpless horror as three bullets erupted in a cloud from
Jasseer's chest, propelling him out of the complex through the opening
in the gate. There had been no sounds, expect for the brief spit of
gunfire from the center of the complex.

"Allahu Akhbar!" Ishmael screamed at the top of his lungs as he slid the
Kalashnikov to his chest, trained it on the guard he now could see
standing fifty feet away, and unloaded a few rounds. Abdul did the same.
Suddenly, the guerrillas emerged from their hiding places and raced
toward the complex, keeping their array of weapons in front of them, but
without firing a single round. Ishmael had given them strict orders not
to fire unless they had a target. Next to water, ammunition was their
most precious commodity.

Gunfire broke out from the other two buildings, but was quickly ended by
a Kurdish shower of mixed-caliber fire impacting the thin sheet metal
walls of the small buildings. The episode lasted fifteen seconds.

Silence.

Ishmael slowly walked toward Jasseer, who was still quietly moving his
lips as he stared up at the stars. Abdul leaned down to pick him up, but
Ishmael stopped him.

"Leave him, he is talking to Allah."

Abdul stood next to Ishmael, and they joined Jasseer in his final
prayers until the young man's lips ceased to move. Then Ishmael leaned
down and closed his eyes.

around and joined the others already inside the complex, which consisted
of a large warehouselike building in the center and two smaller
buildings, probably the guard's quarters, on either side. Ishmael's
seasoned fighters had taken control of the complex with minimum
resistance. He walked to the large gate of the central building, where
Abdul was already hard at work trying to break the lock. He watched his
large Iranian brother fire twice into the locking mechanism. Then, using
only one hand, he slid the heavy door to the side, exposing the spacious
interior.

Ishmael entered first, followed by Abdul and the others. Inside the
large but poorly lit room were boxes of supplies on pallets, stacked
five meters high, covering most of the available floor space and leaving
barely enough room for the three yellow forklifts parked by the
entrance. Large red signs on the boxes indicated their contents: medical
supplies, ammunition, RPG shoulder-launched antitank weapons, AK-41s,
even American plastic explosives. Ishmael had raided similar posts
before, and although the mix of weaponry satisfied most of his band's
needs, Ishmael seldom got his hands on the one weapon the Kurds really
needed to defend themselves against Iraqi helicopters: shoulder-launched
surface-to-air missiles.

"My brothers! Allah has been generous today! Let's take what we need and
offer the rest to him!" Ishmael called.

While the men filled their sacks with supplies and others ran to get the
Rovers, Ishmael, curious, walked to the far right section of the
warehouse by a large table with a neon lamp hanging over it. He saw a
large map of the southern regions with several symbols drawn on it. His
eyes opened wide when he looked to the edge of the map and read the
legend.

"Abdul!"

The large Iranian, who was lifting ammunition crates from a stockpile
and bringing them outside, where several men were opening them and
distributing magazine clips, turned his head when he heard his name
called by his leader.

"What is the matter?" He approached the dimly lit corner of the
building.

"Look, my brother! Allah has just shown us the way to stop the terror in
our villages!"

Abdul read the words next to the symbols on the corner of the map, then
shifted his gaze to Ishmael.

"The American?"

"Yes, my brother. We must show this to our American friend at the
border. He will help us get the missiles that we need to fight the
helicopters."

They quickly collected the map and any other documents they could lay
their hands on. Then, when all the men had loaded the Rovers, Abdul
lifted the heavy fuel barrel he had found next to the electric generator
and emptied its contents on the rest of the ammunition crates. After
everyone left the complex, he set it ablaze.

AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day One. 2030 Local
Time.

As he walked around the concrete blast wall in front of the entrance to
the large bunker, Colonel Abunnasr Manesh felt nauseated by the news of
General Qazi Ali's death. Saddam himself had shot him in the face for
questioning his orders. Insanity! General Ali had nothing but the best
intentions toward his men and had no interest in military or political
advancements. He was an officer for whom his men always came first; but
Saddam had put a bullet through his head for speaking his feelings.

Disgusted with his leader, Manesh reached the entrance of the bunker.
The two-foot-thick sliding steel door was opened a bit to let personnel
in and out. He walked inside the shelter and approached two technicians
working on the left Tumanskii turbofan of his beloved Mig-29 Fulcrum.
The multirole attack fighter, utterly different from any previous Mig,
stood in the middle of the large hangar, next to several Mig-23s. Its
red, white, and black striped flag on each of the two canted vertical
tails indicated that this MIG belonged to the Iraqi Air Force. The green
stripes on the wing and nose indicated that it belonged to Manesh. The
badge of the Mikoyan Gurevich design bureau was displayed on the
sophisticated intake of both engines; a stylized wing with the acronym
Mig in Cyrillic script. Manesh had thought about having the Soviet
manufacturer's symbol removed, but decided against it. The Soviets
should be proud of their creation.

I would not have lost three Mig-23s this morning if my plane had been
ready!"

The younger of the two technicians turned around and looked up into
Manesh's brown eyes. He was about five inches shorter than Manesh's six
feet. "I'm sorry, my colonel, but the engine had to be replaced. The
spare parts from Baghdad did not arrive in time. We have been working
without rest for twenty-"

"How long before it's ready?" Manesh asked, cutting off the mechanic's
excuses.

The young man looked at the other mechanic, who was tightening a clamp
on a hose over the single pressure refueling point in the port main und
ercarriage bay. They mumbled a few sentences back and forth. Finally,
the young technician faced Manesh.

"Five more hours to complete all the checks."

Manesh looked at his watch. It was almost nine o'clock. "I'll be back at
sunrise. That's almost nine hours from now." He walked away from the
hangar and toward the runway on the other side of the blast wall. The
base's living quarters and underground fuel tanks were on the opposite
side of the runway from the concrete shelter, a simple but effective
safety measure.

Before going around the blast wall, Manesh stared back at his Mig-29
through the small opening on the sliding door. It had always amazed him
how the Soviets had managed to devise its unusual camouflage scheme,
which seemed to change color slightly under different conditions, going
from a sharp greenish hue at dawn and dusk to a mild bluish gray during
the middle of the day.

With a final glance at the Mig, convinced that his plane would be
airborne in just a few hours, Manesh walked into the base's living
quarters-a camouflaged concrete building without air-conditioning. Not
having a cooling unit in his quarters had mattered since Kurdish rebels
had knocked out the electricity three weeks before, forcing Manesh to
rely on diesel-powered generators to provide electricity for the hangar
and the communications bunker. Candles provided lighting for the rest of
the base.

Pushing open a brown metallic door, Manesh walked inside the building. A
short, narrow corridor ended in another door leading back outside. A
single candle burned on a plastic dish on the floor of the corridor. Its
dim light cast a flickering yellowish glow on the bare brick walls.
There were three rooms on either side. Manesh's was the first on the
right. It was also the only one with a private sink. He leaned down and
grabbed the dish with the candle, then straightened and went inside his
room.

The air felt thick. Manesh opened a window behind the bed. He set the
dish on the wooden stand and walked to the sink, where he turned the
knob of a single faucet on the side of a rusted basin. He was rewarded
with a trickle of precious water, which he caught and splattered on his
face. The Kurdish rebels had also sabotaged the main water pipes. Repair
crews were still working to restore them. Tonight Allah had been
merciful and spared a handful of water.

Breathing deeply and placing both hands on the sink, he raised his gaze
and stared at the wrinkles around his brown eyes in the cracked mirror
over the sink. Years of living in the desert had taken a toll on
Manesh's forty-year-old body. The full cheeks of his youth now sagged
down the sides of his face, making his once oval face look bottomheavy.
His full lips, as dry and coarse as the rest of his skin, made his face
seem more off balance. With a receding hairline and a long, prominent
nose, Manesh was not a handsome man by any means, but that didn't matter
to the Iraqi colonel. He had stopped caring about the way he looked the
day he dug his wife and newborn child out from under the rubble that had
been his home during the war with Iran. From that day on, whatever love
Manesh had ever felt turned into hatred. Hatred toward the Iranians for
pulling the trigger and the Americans for not doing anything about it.
After that day, he stopped caring about himself. He became aggressive in
his flying, without concern for how close he came to death while pushing
Migs to the outer envelope of their design. He had nothing to lose.
Nothing. The loss of his family had liberated him from all fear. There
was nothing the enemy could take away from him that he hadn't already
lost, except for his life. And that, Manesh thought as he walked to his
bed, would most certainly be a blessing.

The colonel's thoughts returned to General Qazi Ali, one of the few
friends he had left. Most had died during the war of 1991, and the rest,
amazingly enough, had been killed by his own government for one reason
or another.

Something has to give, reflected Manesh as he closed his eyes. We simply
can't continue living like this. Something has to give.

He fell asleep in seconds.

USS R4NGER. EIGHTY MILES NORTH OF BAHRAIN, PERSIAN GULF. Day One. 2 1 00
Local Time.

The air inside the large hangar deck was hazy with engine fumes, making
the fluorescent lights on the other side of the six-hundred-footlong
room almost invisible. Lieutenant Chico Delgado tried to make his way
out of the crowded place, his ears ringing from the loud noise. Tomcats,
Intruders, Prowlers, and Vikings filled the cavernous room as mechanics
ran down checklists, performed diagnostics, and replaced damaged
components.

Delgado struggled to hold his breath until he reached the exit but
failed-. He took a deep breath and wondered how his airplane mechanic
friends could endure the constant smell of engine oil and other fumes at
that satur' ed the air in spite of the powerful ventilation system. He
frowned. This had not been the first time that he'd come down to the
hangar to visit his friends from the old barrio back in East L.A., yet
for some reason tonight Delgado felt nauseated by the odors.

With his eyes half closed, he bumped into a mechanic. The smell of
grease and the mechanic's rancid breath almost made Delgado vomit. The
mechanic, a large, middle-aged man with his shirtsleeves rolled up to
his elbows, displaying massive forearms decorated in tattoos, stared at
Chico. Delgado politely apologized and continued his quest for the exit.
He spotted the dim red light over the stairs leading to the upper deck
and headed toward it, hoping to control his stomach until he got
outside.

Delgado came out in the open and was welcomed by the night's cool,
soothing breeze. He inhaled and exhaled several times, trying to expel
every smoke particle out of his lungs before heading for the ship's
medical facility. Something was definitely wrong with him. He gazed at
the large island on the carrier's deck and then looked down toward the
bow. He saw no planes on the catapults and a long row of men walking
from the bow. FOD walk down.

As he stood next to the nose of an A-6 Intruder with its wings folded
up, Delgado's stomach muscles contracted, forcing food and bile into his
throat. He clenched his teeth and managed to send the fetid mixture back
down to his upset stomach. He knew he would not be able to block it
Again. He raced to the edge of the large flight deck, under the
Intruder's exhaust, and unloaded his dinner over the side. Kneeling on
the deck, he continued gagging for several minutes.

He slowly got up and inhaled the fresh night air several times while
leaning against one of the Intruder's rear landing struts, trying to
pull himself back together again, but failed. The pain intensified; he
fell on his side holding his stomach. Delgado heard noises and felt
someone lifting him off the flight deck. Then everything went dark.

REVELATIONS And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you
free.

-John 8:32 MOSSAD HEADQUARTERS, TEL Aviv, ISRAEL Day One. 2200 Local
Time. Inside a six-by-six-foot cell, a young Iraqi officer named Syed
Faisel stared at an unconscious fellow officer, also caged like an
animal, across the narrow hall. He appeared to be at least forty, Syed
reflected, estimating his age not on the way the colonel looked at that
very moment, but the way he had looked a few hours ago, before Mossad
officers took him away for an interrogation session. They had returned
him only minutes ago, and now the coppery smell of blood from the
colonel's bleeding face filled Syed's nostrils. He wasn't exactly sure
what to say to such a brave man, who would endure so much pain to defend
secrets of national security from the Israelis.

Syed frowned as he inspected the interior of the large room for the
thousandth time: four red brick walls with two white doors. The ceiling,
made of concrete, stood just a foot over his cage. He sighed, silently
cursing himself for having been so stupid. Five months ago, he had been
part of a secret escort mission aboard the Omanian tanker Kilf in the
Mediterranean, returning home from the Soviet port of Novorossiysk in
the Black Sea. At the time, the large ship had been anchored three miles
off the coast of Beirut, Lebanon, where Syed and the rest of the Iraqi
escort team had transferred a number of small crates to a fishing boat
and taken them ashore. After loading the cargo onto trucks in order to
smuggle it through Syria and into Iraq, the team had parked the trucks
inside a warehouse in East Beirut. Syed's commanding officer then sent
him and another soldier back to the port to signal the fishing boat that
the cargo was safe. On their way back, they had seen a very attractive
woman standing on the side of the road next to a car with the hood up.
She waved at them. They stopped and got out. She wore a black miniskirt
and silk blouse. Syed and the other soldier approached her and she told
them she was on her way to a party and her car had just quit running.
She rubbed her fingers through her long, black hair and winked at them,
asking if they would be kind enough to take her there. Syed, noticed her
hardened dark nipples pressed against her silk blouse. Since they didn't
have to report back for another two hours, Syed had agreed.

Syed drove a fist into his palm as he vividly recalled how they had
driven the woman to a house on the outskirts of the city. He had
suspected something when the house they approached was dark, but she
assured him that her girlfriends had probably stepped out for a little
while. Then, when he had least expected it, several spotlights turned on
him and the other soldier, and the woman had pulled out a gun from under
her miniskirt and aimed it at them, saying that they were now her
,prisoners. Syed's friend had tried to resist, and she had shot him in
the face. They tied and blindfolded Syed, put him on the back of a
truck, and took him to a ship. He spent two months by himself inside a
dark room, his only contact the silent guard who had brought him food
and drink twice a day. From there his captors had taken him to their
headquarters, where Syed found out he had been abducted by the Mossad.
The woman was one of their agents.

Syed noticed the other officer open his eyes.

"Sabah al-kair, " Syed said to the colonel, trying to cheer him up, but
the colonel did not look up, remaining hunched over in his cage, holding
his stomach.

"What did those blasphemous pigs do to you, sir?"

"Hmm ... bastards! If I could only get my hands on ... ahh, my ribs  ...
on her, I would crush her neck with my hands."

Syed removed his uniform shirt and tossed it to the colonel, just a few
feet away.

"Here, sir. Use it to wipe off the blood on your face." He saw the
officer pick up the shirt and gently rub his face and neck with it.
:"Your generosity is commendable, Lieutenant  ..."

'taisel, sir," Syed responded, seeing the colonel squint to make out the
remnants of what once had been the sewn name over the left pocket of
Syed's long-sleeved army shirt.

"Why isn't your name-"

"I tore it off right before I was captured, sir. Those blasphemous pigs
will 4never be able to get any information out of me, not even my name."

"Lieutenant Faisel, if we get out of this alive, I will personally see
that you move to the rank of captain."

"That is very generous of you, sir."

"How did these pigs capture you?"

"It is an embarrassment, sir."

"I have heard many strange tales, Lieutenant. You mustn't worry. Go
ahead. It is all right."

Syed cleared his throat and told him everything up to the point when
they had brought him to his cell. The colonel did not interrupt him,
letting him narrate the entire incident.

"So you know Khalela?"

Syed narrowed his eyes. "Well ... yes, how do you "I just spent the last
few hours with her. She is the one who disfigured me. I tell you,
Lieutenant, in all my years in the service I have never seen someone so
beautiful and sadistic."

"Well, she tricked me in Beirut."

As Syed finished saying that, Khalela Yishaid, a senior Mossad
operative, casually strode into the room, her tight-fitting dark olive
fatigues revealing her well-proportioned curves. Both men stared at her.

"Have you changed your mind, Colonel?" she asked with a trace of
sarcasm.

"Burn in hell, sadistic whore!" the colonel snapped back.

Syed remained silent, simply staring at Khalela. She was slightly tall,
but definitely beautiful. Her light olive skin seemed radiant, even
under the harsh light. The impressive high cheekbones, crowned with a
pair of light green eyes ... Damn! No wonder Ifelifor it, he reflected.
Syed had not seen her since his arrival at the Mossad headquarters a few
months back.

"I shall return, Colonel. We will talk then." She turned to Syed. "And
you should not get so jealous, Lieutenant. Your turn comes next."

Syed looked back at the colonel's broken face and didn't respond. She
strode out of the room as casually as she had stepped in. Syed breathed
easier.

"I would not worry about it, Lieutenant. I don't believe she meant it."

"Well, after what she did to you, sir .. "I will survive."

"Excuse my manners, Colonel, but I never did ask your name."

"Colonel Fassid Jassan, Third Tank Division, Western Iraq."

"An honor to meet you, sir."

"The honor is mine, Lieutenant. I do hope that the cargo made it to
Iraq."

Syed looked around the large room, then spoke quietly. "It better, sir.
You see, part of our secret cargo was conventional military
equipment-rifles, ammunition, and spare parts. I know this because we
had to inspect the cargo before loading it onto the trucks."

"And?"

"There were several unmarked boxes."

"Hmm ... any idea of their contents?"

Syed spoke quietly with the colonel for a few moments. When he finished,
the colonel's eyes were wide open.

"For the love of Allah! Do you realize what you are saying?"

"Yes, sir, and I would die rather than tell these pigs about it. Our
government is finally about to become a major world power."

"Listen to me, Lieutenant. We must maintain secrecy. Only Allah knows
how they would react if they knew about this."

"They shall get nothing from me, sir."

"Good. Now tell me, how long ago did you say they kidnapped you?"

"About five months ago, sir."

"Was the cargo headed for Baghdad?"

"No, sir. The orders were that once we reached Iraq we would take our
cargo to a dairy products factory."

"A milk factory? Where?"

"South of An Najaf."

"Is Allahbad the place you're talking about?" asked Colonel Jassan with
surprise, referring to one of the largest dairy products factories in
Iraq that had survived the bombing of the 1991 Gulf War.

"Yes, sir. That is the one."

"That means by this time they must be assembling the first prototypes!

Lieutenant, do you realize the implications of having such weapons?"

"Yes, colonel. The West will finally see that Iraq is a nation to be
reckoned with!"

"Fi aman Allah!"

"You better count on more than Allah's protection to get you through
this one," said Khalela, storming into the room accompanied by three
large guards.

Neither of the two responded.

"Bring the colonel in for another session," she commanded her three
guards. They unlocked the cage and dragged Jassan back out.

azzan sayidan, Colonel!" shouted Syed, clutching his hands around the
heavy steel bars.

"He will need more than just good luck to survive. Remember, I shall be
back for you next."

Syed closed his eyes as they slammed the door behind them.

Colonel Jassan, in reality Hassin Abaraka, Mossad chief of Middle East
operations, removed the plastic makeup from his face as Khalela handed
him a wet towel.

"Did he talk?"

"Khalela, if I wasn't married I would give you a kiss right now! Your
plan was brilliant! He told me everything. Hurry now, let's call for a
general meeting. We mustn't waste any time! You must leave immediately!"

"Leave? Where? What did he tell you?" Khalela asked her superior.

"You won't believe your ears."

USS RANGER. EIGHTY MILES NORTH OF BAHRAIN, PERSIAN GULF. Day One. 2230
Local Time.

Lieutenant Kevin Dalton walked through a maze of compartments, each
about thirty feet in length, oval-shaped hatches in the bulkheads
connecting them. The hatches were identical in size and in perfect
alignment. Kevin went down a flight of stairs, turned right, and
continued for a hundred more feet until reaching his quarters, located
between the top of the carrier's colossal hangars and the bottom side of
the armored flight deck. He couldn't wait to tell Delgado the good news:
they'd been assigned to fly together the following afternoon.

"Hey, Chico, guess what hap-May I help you?" he asked the medical
officer looking inside his bunkmate's locker.

Lieutenant Chico Delgado did not feel great, but he definitely felt
better than he had several hours before when some sailors had found him
on the flight deck during the FOD walk down. They had brought him to the
carrier's medical facility, which resembled a small hospital, with a
fully loaded operating room and intensive care unit. It had taken the
doctor on duty less than five minutes to diagnose a severe case of food
poisoning. After several laxatives and a stomach pump job that left
Delgado swearing he would never eat again, the doctor had ordered him to
rest for forty-eight hours before flying again.

Delgado stared at the ghostly pale, skinny orderly on the other side of
the long room. The orderly lifted his head and regarded Delgado with his
sunken, bloodshot eyes before going back to a paperback.

Delgado exhaled and flipped through a month-old issue ofapproach, the
naval aviation safety review magazine, without really reading anything.
He couldn't concentrate in a place that felt, looked, and smelled like a
hospital. He hated being here, and to make matters worse, the orderly
looked like a mortician. Delgado would have already been out of here if
he hadn't felt so bad.

Frowning and silently cursing his bad luck, he rubbed his hand over his
bulldog tattoo. His mind drifted back to the foul-smelling, tattooed
mechanic down in the maintenance deck. Those tattoos reminded him of the
days when he was growing up in a barrio in East Los Angeles. Delgado
smiled, remembering the old lady that lived down the street from his
parents' house.

She had a friendly bulldog named Ernie. Delgado and his friends called
him Pug. Delgado had grown attached to Pug. His owner let him out when
Delgado and his friends were playing ball on the street, and Pug would
fetch sticks and balls.

One day, members from a gang had come to his street while Delgado and
his friends were playing with Pug. The gang members started to tease
Pug, and the dog had bitten one of them. The other members then pulled
out knives and stabbed the dog in front of Delgado. His friends, scared
of the gang members, hadn't done anything about the dog yelping and
bleeding in the street. Without thinking, an infuriated Delgado had shot
across the street and kicked one of gang members in the groin. The
others jumped him. Two put a knife in him and then the whole gang ran
away. Delgado had been taken to the hospital with a cut in his leg and
left forearm and was released the following morning. Pug had died that
night. Delgado's parents had been upset at him for not cooperating with
the police, for telling them nothing. They didn't understand the rules
of the street. Anyone who cooperated with the police wound up dead or
missing, or something terrible happened to their homes. The law of the
barrio. Unwritten but strictly enforced.

A month later, after the doctors had pulled the stitches out of his arm
and leg, Delgado had done something his entire family thought extremely
stupid. Still upset about Pug, he had grabbed an old photo of the dog
and gotten a tattoo. The scar on his forearm went across Pug's forehead.

He glanced across the room and caught the morbid orderly staring at him.
What's your problem anyway, dude? Delgado thought. Get a life, man! Go
up on the deck and catch some rays. You're giving me the fucking creeps!

Delgado heard footsteps. He lifted his head, relieved to see Kevin.

"I thought you guys from south of the border could eat and drink just
about anything." Kevin grinned.

Delgado forced a smile. Kevin was one of the few pilots Delgado truly liked.
Kevin didn't have that arrogance that seemed to prevail among fighter
pilots. "Not very funny, Crackers. You ever gotten your stomach pumped?"

"Nope."

"I tell you, man, I'd been stabbed a few times durin the days back in
the old barrio, but what that doctor did to me was worse."

"I talked to some medical officer. He says you'll be out of here in a
COUPLE of days." Kevin pulled up a chair next to the bed. "I guess that
white stuff you drank didn't work, eh?"

Delgado saw a trace of amusement in Kevin's brown eyes.

"This must have been one of those few cases. I'm tellin' you, the shit's
great."

Kevin smiled.

Delgado's long face became serious. "Say, hermano, the flight surgeon
says I can't fly for a couple of days."

Kevin nodded. "Yep. You don't look in any shape to pull gees."

"No shit. I feel like hell."

Kevin checked his watch. "Well, gotta go get some sleep. Briefing's at
eleven sharp. Be back to check on you tomorrow after the flight."

"Yeah, you do that, man. This place gives me the creeps, and that pale
dude over there looks like he's ready to pull out the shovel and bury
me.

Kevin smiled broadly while shaking his head. "See ya."

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Two. 1020
Local Time.

In the dark, dry interior of the weathered tent, Ishmael Barzani could
not make out the face of his American friend's companion, who had
quietly sat in the corner sipping coffee throughout the entire
debriefing. A single gas lamp hanging in the corner of the room provided
all the illumination. Aside from the table and the few chairs scattered
around, Ishmael saw no other furniture inside the tent.

He sat near the entrance, next to Abdul. The American sat across the
table wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and dark pants. He was a tall
man, slightly on the heavy side, but not by much. His black hair fell
over his forehead, partially covering a pair of eyebrows as thick as his
full lips. Ishmael didn't know his real name, but that didn't matter to
him or his band. They referred to the American as the Bai, or merchant.
All that really mattered to the Kurdish rebel were the British-made
shoulder-launched Javelin missiles neatly arranged behind the Bai.

"I'll take it you wish to make a trade, my friend?"

Ishmael, the only one in the guerrilla group who spoke English courtesy
of some British missionaries he'd known for a number of years almost a
decade before-nodded slightly. The missionaries had not only taught
Ishmael English but also geography and math-enough for the intelligent
Kurd to teach his own people after the Iraqi government had expelled the
missionaries for espionage.

Ishmael looked at Abdul Mozakhu sitting next to him and then pointed to
the American Bai. Abdul pulled out a small sack and handed it to
Ishmael, who in turn looked at the American, pulled out the documents
and the map, unfolded a section of the map-enough for the Bai to raise
an eyebrow-and pointed at the missiles. "These are very important
papers," Ishmael said in a low voice, careful not to touch his loose
tooth with his tongue. He still had not found the time to pull it out.

The American leaned back on his chair. "Very well, if they are of any
importance to our troops, we might be able to reach an agreement."

Ishmael nodded. The American Bai was always fair, as long as they
brought something to bargain with. This time, he tossed the documents
and the map across the table. The American grabbed them, inspected them
briefly, and then lifted his head in obvious surprise.

"Damn! Where in the hell did you guys get a hold of something like
this?"

Ishmael smiled, proud that Allah had given him the wisdom to correctly
assess the strategic value of the documents. "That is our secret, Bai.

The American frowned slightly, then extended his right hand across the
table. "All right, Ishmael, it seems that we will be able to help each
other once more."

Ishmael, already aware of this Western custom, responded by also
extending his hand and pumping the American's. He gave Ishmael a thin
smile, revealing two rows of glistening white teeth. As another bolt of
pain streaked across his diseased molars, the Kurd couldn't help but
feel jealous of the American. In a way, Ishmael wished he could bargain
for some dental care at the American base. He felt certain that it
wouldn't take long for an American doctor and his expensive equipment to
fix Ishmael's problems, but the Barzani in him could never allow that.
Such public acknowledgment of his misfortune would be unbecoming to a
Kurdish leader.

After his men had carried the powerful Javelins outside and loaded them
up into their Rover desert vehicles, Ishmael turned around and stared at
the American, standing by the canvas entrance of the large tent. "Thank
you, Bai."

"No, thank you, Ishmael. This information will be very helpful to us.
Listen, these are very complex weapons to use effectively. Would you
like us to give you or any of your men some training?"

"Not necessary, Bai, training will come." He smiled and waved as the
four-vehicle caravan sped away.

"Those weapons won't do them any good without proper training, Bob. How
are they going to use them?" asked Colonel Peter Halston, U.S. Air
Force, from the corner of the room.

Robert Bourdeaux, senior officer from the Cover Action staff within the
directory of Operations of the CIA, regarded Halston for a few seconds.
"Ishmael hinted that their training will come. I'm not sure what he
meant by that."

"You think their maps are really worth that much?" Halston approached
Bourdeaux and leaned over the table.

"Well, look here and tell me what you think." Bourdeaux finished
unfolding the large map on the dimly lit table inside the
desertcamouflage tent. Unlike Bourdeaux, who measured almost six feet
tall and weighed nearly two hundred pounds-twenty pounds too many, in
Bourdeaux's opinion-Halston was just a couple of inches shorter, in
awesome physical shape, and always had a perfect tan.

Bourdeaux didn't have a tan; he hadn't had one since leaving the Air
Force a decade before to go back to school to pursue a doctorate in
Middle Eastern Affairs. He had landed a job instantly at the CIA upon
graduation, where it didn't take him long to work himself up to his
current position as one of the best operations officers the agency had
to offer. His ability to recruit agents inside Iraq, like the Kurd
Ishmael, and his objectivity and common sense in analyzing data and
problems -in addition to his thorough knowledge of the Middle East-were
the reasons he had been posted here, where the action was. As an
operations officer and satellite imaging expert temporarily reporting
directly to the director of Central Intelligence back in Langley,
Bourdeaux knew the importance of being here. Under normal circumstances,
Bourdeaux would report to the deputy director for operations, who
reported to the deputy director of Central Intelligence, who in turn
reported to the director of the CIA, but given the recent findings in
the European Division about Saddam Hussein acquiring nuclear weapons
components, the CIA director had broken the chain of command and had
sent Bourdeaux to the region under orders to report directly to him.

Bourdeaux liked Halston, who had a full plate of responsibilities these
days. Not only was Halston responsible for interfacing with the CIA, he
also happened to be the base commanding officer's right-hand man.
Halston was responsible for Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR) teams, and
he had recently inherited the job of managing a full staff of majors and
captains overlooking dozens of technicians handling the mind-numbing
communications of the base with other bases, with U.S. Central Command
Air Forces (CENTAF) back in Riyadh, and with the AWACS controlling
fighters in the southern no-fly zone.

But Bourdeaux didn't like Halston only because of the colonel's amazing
ability to handle many tasks at once. Their friendship went back to
their Air Force years, before Bourdeaux had left to pursue other
interests. Although they'd been best of friends in the service, they had
seldom heard from one another after Bourdeaux left the Air Force. They
both had chosen very demanding careers, Halston had gotten married, and
between his job and his wife, Bourdeaux just about lost touch with his
old Air Force buddy. A few years later, Bourdeaux had received a call in
the middle of the night from a mourning Halston-his wife had been killed
in an auto accident. Bourdeaux had wasted no time in going to his
friend's side. Years later, Bourdeaux finally realized what a small
world it was when he had arrived at the desert air base and found
Halston as his liaison.

"See this, Pete?" Bourdeaux pointed to a red pencil line connecting the
port of Umm Qasr in the Persian Gulf to a large red circle encompassing
almost five hundred square miles of land centered around An Najaf, in
south-central Iraq.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"This is the destination of a cargo unloaded at Umm Qasr."

"Cargo? What cargo?"

Running a finger over the Arabic writing of the document Ishmael had
given him along with the map, Bourdeaux said, "The cargo of thirty
Russian-made SS-11 rocket boosters."

"Wh-what? SS11s? Why in the hell ... Jesus! Does that mean what I
think it means?"

The CIA officer nodded grimly. "I'm afraid so. We've had our suspicions
about the Iraqis assembling a larger rocket to use in conjunction with
their nuclear weapons program, and this map is the first solid piece of
evidence that they're doing just that."

"Well, that might be true, but five hundred square miles is a lot of
space. Those boosters could be anywhere."

Bourdeaux nodded. Included in the circle were four chemical plants, two
large dairy products factories, one large oil refinery, five air bases,
and several large cities, including Baghdad, Karbala, Falluja, Salman
Pak, and Al Kut.

"Has anything been picked up from satellite photos?" Halston asked.

"Ah ... no. We have several KH-11 orbital passes each day. Nothing's
been picked up on the satellite's high-resolution camera, though I'm not
that surprised."

Halston tilted his head and studied Bourdeaux for a moment. "What makes
you say that?"

"Well, you see, we're talking about boosters only, not entire SS-11
missiles. I think the boosters are somewhere in the neighborhood of
eight to ten feet long, right?" Bourdeaux waited for Halston to
acknowledge before continuing. "I'm sure that if the Iraqis didn't want
us to know about them, they might have had them dismantled prior to
shipment." Bourdeaux walked to the gas lamp hanging in the corner
andturned the knob to maximum intensity. "Did our bombers hit these
plants during Desert Storm?"

"Ah, yes and no," responded Halston as he leaned over the map once more
and inspected it closer. "We hit all four chemical factories repeatedly.
We also blasted their refinery and a number of power plants around
Baghdad and other cities, but we never touched the dairy products
factories. They're still considered civilian structures at CENTAF. They
provide food for a lot of women and children. Dairy products are a big
part of their diet. During Desert Storm, CENTAF decided to leave those
two factories alone. They had no military significance, but there would
have been bad political repercussions if we'd hit them without proper
motive, if you catch my drift."

"Exactly how far away is the center of the circle-An Najaf-from us?"

"Ah ... let's see," Halston said, looking at the map. "It looks like
it's a little over two hundred miles from where Iraq, Kuwait, and Saudi
Arabia intersect."

"Don't we have a large deployment of tanks further west of there?"

Bourdeaux pointed to a location a hundred miles west of the
intersection, where allied forces ran war exercises in preparation for a
second ground war, if it ever came to that.

"Yes, that's correct. Those men are about one hundred seventy miles away
from An Najaf."

"Isn't that within the range of the Scud B?" Bourdeaux asked.

"Well, the Scud's range is somewhere between one hundred and two hundred
miles, depending on the type of warhead used. But the Iraqis have
modified them to improve their range, and renamed them the "Al Hussein'
missile."

"What's its range?" asked Bourdeaux while rubbing a hand through his
thinning brown hair.

Halston stared in the distance for a second or two. "Okay, to start
with, keep in mind that the Al Hussein, just like the Scud B from which
it was developed, is a very inaccurate missile that the Iraqis have used
in the past against densely populated areas only. Our estimate's that
they modified it to achieve a range of roughly three hundred fifty
miles. The changes they made, though, were very crude. The Scud's a
solidpropellant missile. The Iraqis simply strapped liquid-propellant
rockets to the sides. In doing so, they increased the range but lost
reliabilitypart of the reason why some of them fell apart in midair
during Desert Storm. Also, their accuracy wasn't improved much."

"But with that range, they could get lucky and hit some of our
installations in Saudi Arabia-assuming they fire them from within this
red circle."

"Yes, they could, but I wouldn't worry about it much. You've seen how
inaccurate their missiles have been. The Scud in its present form is
nothing but a terrorist weapon. It has no strategic purpose from a
military standpoint. But based on the Kurds' information, I think the
Iraqis might be working on a next generation Scud, one that uses
liquid-propellant technology reliably."

Bourdeaux rubbed his chin as Halston sat back on his chair and continued
his dissertation on the Iraqi missiles. Fifteen minutes later, Halslton
left for the communications tent.

Robert Bourdeaux felt the stinging pain behind his eyes and in the back
of his neck returning. He'd developed chronic headaches during college.
His family doctor had told him it was due to a combination of excessive
reading, too much stress, a poor diet, and lack of sleep. At the time,
Bourdeaux was trying to get his bachelor's and master's degrees in five
years instead of the regular six. Averaging twenty-one credit-hours per
semester, Bourdeaux didn't have any time left for himself. That's when
his parents put the brakes on him and forced him to take a semester off.
Bourdeaux argued that he would fall behind in his career, but after his
parents insisted, Bourdeaux agreed, finally realizing he was on the
verge of burnout. In time, the chronic headaches subsided, but they
never went away completely, always returning whenever he allowed too
much stress in his life, or if he began cutting back his sleeping hours
or ate poorly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the everpresent
pack of extra-strength Tylenol caplets. In his line of work he couldn't
afford to operate without them.

As he popped three in his mouth-two just didn't quite do the job
anymore-Bourdeaux recalled the information Halston had just told him
about the rumors floating around Air Force Intelligence about Iraqis
working on an even longer range missile. Something they called the "Al
Ahar" missile. It was supposed to be another Scud B-based missile, but
with far longer range than any of its predecessors. Halston felt that
was the reason for the new boosters. If Halston's military analysts had
done their homework right, the consensus was that Iraq could be in the
process of developing a tactical missile with a range in excess of one
thousand miles and a much more accurate guidance system.

Bourdeaux's square face hardened and slowly turned blood-red as he
clenched his teeth and pressed his full lips into a tight frown. How?

How in the hell did we allow those maniacs access to the damned
technology to build weapons! He was aware of the implications of such a
missile. It would give the Iraqis the capability of striking targets
anywhere from Greece down to the Gulf of Oman. Most of the oil
installations in the region would be within their reach. And if they
combined the accuracy of such a missile with the massive destruction of
a nuclear warhead ... Jesus, what a nightmare!

Bourdeaux rubbed the two-day-old stubble on his chin, then turned his
head when he heard the thundering roar of the main rotors of two Apache
helicopters accelerating to takeoff RPM a hundred yards away at the edge
of the paved runway. The large dark gray beasts, with an array of mixed
weapons under their fixed wings, left the ground under the powerful
thrust generated by two large turbofans, creating a cloud of dust that
appeared to engulf them, until they reappeared and accelerated toward
the west.

He shook his head, disappointed that their satellites would not be able
to pick up much of the activity. Satellites were great for noticing
deployment of troops, tanks, and aircraft, but the disassembled rockets
were not that big. Satellites would not be able to pick them out until
it was too late. In addition, the Iraqis probably would camouflage them,
well aware of satellite capability.

Bourdeaux knew he had to do something about it immediately. He had the
feeling that given their limited resources the Iraqis were probably
assembling the rockets at one place. The United States had to strike
while all the rockets were grouped in one location. After assembly the
Iraqis would be able to scatter them across the country in
mobilelauncher units, making it extremely difficult-if not
impossible-for the United States to find them.

He was about to go over the information on the map again when the base's
sirens came to life.

Damn!

Bourdeaux raced toward the communications tent but stopped halfway.
Halston was already running out of it.

"What is going on? Another drill?"

"No drill. Three Scuds! All headed for King Khalid Military City. We're
gonna try to intercept them as they fly overhead." Halston ran toward
the MSQ-104 Patriot control station, mounted on an M-818 tractor,
located a few hundred feet from the communications tent. King Khalid
Military City was one of the largest air bases in Saudi Arabia. The U.S.
Air Force still kept a large number of planes and pilots stationed
there. "Radar shows the missiles to be fifty miles away. We'll intercept
in a few minutes."

Bourdeaux started breathing heavily as he struggled to keep up with
Halston's pace. Iraq had not fired a single Scud since the end of the
Gulf War ... could those missiles actually be ... Oh, Jesus!

"Pete ... those missiles could be nuclear!"

Halston came to a screeching halt. "Fuck! I never thought about-"

"I hope to God they're just Scuds, but .. Halston nodded. "No shit. I
hope so, too." He began to run again. "Well, that still doesn't change
the way we're gonna blast them."

Bourdeaux ran after him. Halston reached the back of the control station
and knocked twice. The phased-array radar-the key element in the Patriot
system-stood less than fifty feet in front of the control station.
Consisting of more than five thousand radar antenna elements, the radar
system was capable of detecting and tracking one hundred targets at a
time. Two hundred feet beyond the radar was a row of eight M-901
launcher stations, each housing four missiles.

The rear door swung open, and they stepped inside the murky room and
closed the door behind them.

"How does it look?" Halston asked a black sergeant manning the control
station.

"No problem. System's in automatic. We got 'em tracked," the sergeant
responded without looking away from the screen.

Halston turned to Bourdeaux. "The phase-array radar found them and is
waiting for the right time to launch."

Bourdeaux nodded.

"There isn't much that's going to happen in here," Halston said. "Let's
go back outside."

Bourdeaux followed him out, and the two of them stood next to the
portable generator that powered the entire system.

Bourdeaux spotted a sudden bright flash coming from one of the
launchers. He snapped his head in the direction of the launcher and
watched the Thiokol TX-486 single-thrust solid rocket motor propel the
2200-pound missile through the rubbery membrane that sealed the launch
tube and into a bright sky, accelerating it to Mach 3 in seconds. There
were five more flashes. Five more Patriots.

His eyes quickly scanned the sky for a sign of the incoming Scuds.

"Over there, Bob," said Halston. "See it?"

Bourdeaux could see the contrail of two Patriots closing in on something
...  Wait, there it is!

Two bright flashes in the sky were followed by an even larger flash.

"That's a kill," said Halston. Bourdeaux nodded and shifted his gaze
toward the second set of Patriots closing in on another Scud: two
flashes as the Patriots' high-explosive warheads were detonated by
proximity fuses. The resulting cloud of shrapnel engulfed the incoming
Scud, creating the third flash that Bourdeaux saw a few seconds before
his ears registered the blast. By that time, the third Scud had also
been destroyed.

In . the distance, roughly twenty miles away and five thousand feet
higi-i-, Bourdeaux saw three clouds of smoking debris, each spaced about
two miles from the others, slowly fall down to earth. Holding his
breath, he waited. Most nuclear warheads were fitted with an altimeter
fuse, which detonated the warhead after it descended below a certain
altitude.

Bourdeaux smiled when the debris disappeared below the horizon and
nothing else happened. That meant that the missiles were either regular
Scuds, or the Patriots had taken out the nuclear warheads and not just
the booster sections of the missiles. That was the reason for firing two
Patriots per Scud. The first few Scuds that had gotten through the
missile defenses back in 1991 were actually struck by Patriots but not
fully destroyed. In one case, a Patriot struck the tail of an incoming
Scud, leaving the warhead intact. Two Patriots per Scud doubled the
chances of the antimissile missile system. It had earned the respect of
the same military analysts that originally considered it a costly
boondoggle. The Patriot system had experienced several setbacks and cost
overruns during development, mostly because the air-defense system was
pushing the limits of state-of-the-art technology, but after the initial
problems had been solved, the Patriot system worked exactly as designed.

Bourdeaux scanned the horizon one final time. The Patriot's kill ratio
was miraculous.

THE WHITE HOUSE. Day Two. 0530 Local Time.

Sitting behind his desk, President Bill Clinton read his daily briefing
in the presence of his CIA director, defense secretary, and the
undersecretary of Middle Eastern Affairs, General Kenneth Draper. His
secretary of state was in Geneva talking with Iraqi Foreign Minister
Tariq Aziz in a last-ditch effort to settle the problem through
diplomacy, but Clinton knew the trip was academic. As it had been prior
to the Gulf War of 1991, nothing would be accomplished. The onsite CIA
officer Bourdeaux, however, had come up with a piece of highly revealing
data. The Iraqis had acquired thirty SS-11 boosters, and they were
hiding them somewhere in south-central Iraq.

President Clinton, wearing a pair of khaki slacks, a white Polo shirt,
and white tennis shoes, stood, checked his watch, walked around the
desk, then sat on a chair close to the cream sofas. Legs crossed, hands
resting on the arms of the wooden chair, and blue analytical eyes
half-closed, the president said to Kettler, "How soon before you can
narrow down the exact spot where they're hiding the boosters?"

The CIA director rubbed a hand through his unkempt gray hair and thought
for a few moments. "Now we look for abnormal patterns, Mr. President."

Clinton tilted his head. "Abnormal patterns?"

"Yes, sir. We have satellite image archives that go back three decades,
and because of the Gulf War of 1991, we have collected a very detailed
picture of how much traffic to expect at certain factories during
specific times of the day in the region. We know the traffic patterns of
all roads in Iraq during the day and night. We also know the types and
sizes of vehicles associated with each plant and road. Now we start
looking for anomalies in those patterns, out-of-the-ordinary events that
might lead us to the spot where the Iraqis are assembling those nukes.
Although this might sound a bit far-reaching, it is a very exact
science, just like during the Cuban Missile Crisis, when the CIA was in
the business of counting Soviet missiles entering Cuba. Even though the
missiles were crated and often covered with canvas during shipment, we
could tell which kind of missile it was based on the length, shape, and
width of the crates. Our situation is a bit different since we're not
dealing with fully assembled missiles, but the principle is the same.

"The bottom line here, sir, is that the CIA has images on anyone who
does anything on this planet that's exposed to the sky. You put those
images in the hands of expert analysts, and you got yourself mounds of
information."

"And then again, you might not get mounds of information," added Kenneth
Draper to the obvious annoyance of the CIA director. Draper ignored
Kettler's burning stare and continued, his eyes on President Clinton.
"Although I agree with Mr. Kettler that satellite imagery does a lot of
good for intelligence gathering, I strongly believe that it is not an
exact science, Mr. President. The problem with this approach is that the
data could be misleading, making you believe that an increase in traffic
at a specific location, or the usage of larger or different sized
vehicles at that location means you have found your boosters, while in
reality it could be due to an entirely different reason, sending you on
a wild-goose chase. Yes, you can take pictures of everything that is
going on, but you can't get inside the heads of the people that you're
taking pictures of, and actions can be very deceiving at times. Also,
don't forget that the Iraqis are no fools. They know we're watching
them. They could have changed the traffic pattern of one location as a
diversion while moving the boosters to another using normal traffic
patterns."

"That's a possibility," countered CIA Director Kettler, "but we're fully
versed on the art of camouflage, decoys, and deception. In its history,
the CIA has succeeded time and again at filtering out decoys to find the
real data."

"When?" Draper asked.

"That's classified. You don't need to know."

"That's enough, gentlemen," the president said as Kettler and Draper
exchanged stern glances.

Theories. Possibilities. Clinton sighed, closing his eyes. He had to be
sure of the location before launching an air strike. The recent Scud
attack had telegraphed Saddam's position clearly: he was trying to
provoke U.S. action in the region to which, Clinton feared, the Iraqi
leader would retaliate with nuclear weapons.

Shaking his head, Clinton decided he could not risk an air strike at
this moment. Doing so could result in devastating consequences.

Jaws clenched, his eyes burning a hole into the carpet, the president
drove a fist into his palm, muttering, "If I only knew where they were."

NFL-" CAPS "Our strategy to go after this army is very, very simple.
First, we're going to cut it off, and then we're going to kill it."

-General Colin Powell (during Operation Desert Storm)

USS R4NGER. EIGHTY MILES NORTH OF BAHRAIN, PERSIAN GULF.

Day Two. II 30 Local Time.

Lieutenant Kevin Dalton braced himself against the g-forces pressing him
into his ejection seat as the Tomcat accelerated down the carrier's
short deck from zero to 140 knots in less than three seconds. Kevin
climbed quickly to ten thousand feet and joined Lancaster to fly yet
another CAP mission for the USS Wisconsin.

"Head to three three zero and station bears three six zero for ninety,"
Kevin's new RIO, Lieutenant Jeffrey "Soup" Campbell, a twenty-year-old
native of Oklahoma City, said over the ICS, giving Kevin a courtesy
bearing and heading. In reality, since Kevin was flying wing for
Lancaster, he really didn't need to know their heading. As wing, Kevin
merely had to follow Lancaster.

"Rog," responded Kevin. This was the first time that he had been teamed
up with Campbell.

The fighters continued on a northerly course under a cloudy afternoon
sky.

AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN IRAQ.

Day Two. 121 5 Local Time.

Colonel Abunnasr Manesh strode into the airplane shelter and approached
the red cockpit ladder of his Mig-29 Fulcrum. He stopped briefly to
zipper up the G suit he wore over his flight suit and to double-check
the green visor of his helmet. Three older Mig-2 Is stood behind the
Fulcrum-all the fighters remaining from his twenty-plane air wing. The
other three a'rcraft shelters in the base were filled with four T-72
tanks, two small Gazelle scout helicopters, two Hind-D attack
helicopters, a couple of supply trucks, and five jeeps.

Manesh glanced at boxes of spare parts and a ton of maintenance
equipment filling the entire left side of the bunker. The blackened
concrete floor-the result of countless tire marks and oil
spillscontrasted harshly with the white-painted walls and ceiling, from
which a maze of neon lights hung. Two huge openings at the rear led to
well-disguised ventilation tubes on the surface.

"Your plane is ready, Colonel!"

Ignoring the young technician's proud announcement, Manesh stepped up
the ladder, and with a graceful gymnastic maneuver, he lifted his legs
over the side and positioned himself inside the cockpit. Once more, his
superiors were asking him to fly a mission into the no-fly zone. This
time, Manesh would make the flight count. "Has the first team been
advised?"

"Yes, sir. They will leave in five minutes."

"Perfect!"

Manesh started the Tumanskii turbofans and lowered the hinged canopy. He
scanned the conventional, all-analog instrument panel, mentally going
through the pre-taxi checklist, very similar to that of the older
Mig-23. As he finished this initial and critical check, Manesh plugged
the plastic hose from his G suit into a receptacle under the instrument
panel. He inched forward the side-by-side throttle controls, which were
mounted on piggyback slides on the right side of the cockpit, and
stepped hard on the brake pedals. The craft began to move forward and
abruptly stopped. Satisfied that the brakes were operating properly,
Manesh released them and the 39,000-pound craft bolted forward, leaving
behind the safety of the concrete shelter.

Although all he needed to taxi the craft were minor throttle adjustments
and use of the rudder pedals, which directly controlled the nose-wheel,
Manesh curled the fingers of his left hand around the control stick and
thanked Allah and the engineers at Mikoyan-Gurevich for having designed
such a long control column. It gave him excellent leverage.

Minutes later, the Fulcrum rolled off the hot tarmac at 170 knots and
leveled off in flight at 150 feet above ground level.

Closely following the contours of the rugged terrain, Manesh
concentrated on altitude and speed, trying to avoid radar detection by
the American fighters and the ever-present AWACS. He succeeded. Five
minutes later, the Mig-29 entered Iranian airspace, where he flew low
and slow over the coastline, well within safety, yet close enough to
monitor Allied activities in the Persian Gulf.

He checked his watch. The decoy team of Mig-21s would arrive in the area
in one minute.

"Wolfpack Two Zero Two, Cougar, " Kevin Dalton heard the crew from the
AWACS say over the squadron frequency.

"Cougar, Two Zero Two, " replied Lieutenant Baby Johnson from the
backseat of Lancaster's plane.

"Three bandits. Your vector zero six zero at seventy, buster.

Kevin briefly closed his eyes as Johnson responded, "Two Zero TWO.

"You got them, Soup?" Kevin asked.

"Flight of three, echelon, stacked left, one five zero at sixty-eight.
Select Phoenix," Campbell responded, confirming radar painting of three
Migs heading southeast sixty-eight miles away in a straight line for the
Wisconsin.

They're going after the ships! Kevin flicked his thumb on the control
stick and saw an AIM-54 Phoenix selected. He felt his heartbeat
increasing. The rules of engagement had been changed since yesterday by
presidential order: Kevin was not allowed to fire unless the incoming
Migs fired first. Oh, shit. Here we go again.

"Head zero two zero to intercept, " said Campbell.

"Knockers up, " directed Lancaster, calling to select master arm of all
weapons aboard the Tomcat. "Rules of engagement, gentlemen!"

The pair of Tomcats lowered their noses, dashing earthward through the
sky on a near-vertical descent to five thousand feet, where they leveled
off. The Migs continued on a direct course toward the Wisconsin, only
forty miles away.

"Sorted, Shadow," Kevin heard Soup Campbell say over the squadron
frequency, indicating that he had a lock on the lead bandit.

"Burners, now, " directed Lancaster. The Tomcats went into afterburners
to reduce the smoke coming out of their exhausts.

Kevin strained his eyes, trying to get a visual on the enemy, who slowly
appeared over the horizon as mere specks.

"Tally three ten, slightly high, " said Baby Johnson as Kevin spotted
three Mig-21 "fishheads" flying in an echelon formation at ten o'clock.
His index finger caressed the firing trigger on his control stick but
waited for Lancaster to make the first move. The Migs were too close to
the Wisconsin.

"I got all three, Shadow! They're not breaking away!" reconfirmed
Campbell.

"Fox three!" ordered Lancaster, giving Kevin the order to fire.

Kevin loosed one Phoenix; Lancaster another one. Being so close to the
targets, the missiles immediately switched to their own active radar
seeking system.

While flying below twenty feet above the waters off the Iranian coast,
Manesh saw the Americans fire on the Mig-2 Is. He manually inflated his
G suit and armed three of his AA-11 Archer air-to-air missiles. After a
brief prayer to Allah, he turned toward the Tomcats.

The huge plumes of white smoke racing toward the Migs got the attention
of the Iraqi pilots right away. Kevin knew that the Iraqis had plenty of
respect for the F- 1 4 and the Phoenix from the years of war against the
Iranians and their Tomcats, as well as from the Desert Storm experience.
He watched all three Mig pilots eject before the missiles struck. What
bothered him was that the pilot of the third Mig ejected without having
a missile on his tail ... "Break left! Missiles in the air!" Kevin heard
Lancaster shout as his Tomcat broke hard to the left.

What in the hell is going on? Kevin thought as he wracked his Tomcat in
a hard left turn following his lead. A second later, he saw three
contrails snaking toward Lancaster. Jesus!

Kevin watched in helpless horror as three missiles closed in on
Lancaster's F-14 from the direction of Iran. The Tomcat, almost in a
vertical dive, managed to fool two of the three missiles by dispensing
flares before the last one impacted its left turbofan.

"Mayday, Mayday! I'm single engine, losing hydraulics on both sides!"

With the loss of one engine, the wounded Tomcat was crippled but
flyable. Without hydraulics, the aircraft could not be controlled.
Before Lancaster could react, the F-14A stalled and went into a spin.
Kevin watched the fighter, almost as if it had been sucked in by a
tornado, spiraling toward the gulf.

"Tally one Bandit. Eleven o'clock low!" said Campbell, but Kevin barely
heard him. His eyes followed his leader's plane.

"Pull up, Shadow!" Kevin screamed. "Pull up, dammit!"

Using the surviving turbofan and the little that remained of hydraulics,
Lancaster pulled out of the spin and managed to level off just as a
Mig-29 rolled behind him.

"Fulcrum at your six!" Kevin called.

"Get him off my ass!" screamed Lancaster.

"Cavalry's coming, Shadow. I'll get him off your tail. Just a few more
seconds."

Kevin got his Tomcat behind and to the right of the Mig, but Lancaster's
plane went for a dive and the Mig followed, ruining Kevin's shot by
placing both aircraft in the windscreen. There was no telling which
target the Sidewinder would go after.

"Dammit! The angle's no good for the heaters! I'm closing in for guns.
Hang on-" Kevin's words were cut short by several bursts from the Mig's
six-barrel 30mm cannon. Kevin noticed the rounds ripping across the
Mostly aluminum skin of Lancaster's F-14A.

"Jesus Christ, Crackers. Get this asshole off my tail!"

"Hang on, Shadow." Kevin followed the two-plane caravan through a series
of turns, climbs, and dives, trying to put the pipper on the Mig's tail,
but every time he got an angle, the fighters changed direction. Another
burst shot from the Mig's cannon. More wing debris came off Lancaster's
Tomcat. Kevin's wings were at twenty degrees now, and he thumbed out his
slats to stay with the Mig.

"This guy's chewing me up!"

"Hold on!"

Smoke spewed out of Lancaster's remaining turbofan. The Tomcat began to
fall.

"Get the hell out of there, Shadow!" shouted Kevin.

"Two Zero Two will eject. May Day, May D-"

The squadron frequency went dead as the Mig continued to unload 30mm
projectiles all over the fuselage of the dying Tomcat.

"You bastard! It was already going down!" Kevin screamed as the canopy
gave under the brutal punishment and the heads of Lancaster and the RIO
snapped forward. An overwhelming sense of anger filled Kevin as the
F-14A spiraled down to the ocean. The Mig stayed with the doomed craft
all the way down, pulling up at the last minute and barely missing the
enraged flames that surged up into the sky when the fighter hit the
serene waters. The craft rolled its wings in shameless victory and
turned toward the Iraqi coastline with full afterburners.

Kevin gave chase. The Iraqi 'et was within Sparrow range when it made a
wide left turn and safely reached land.

With the determination that comes from an utter, unyielding commitment,
Kevin hurled his craft into a wickedly tight left turn and felt the g's
as he stressed the craft's fuselage to maintain the turn needed to
intercept.

"Wolfpack Two One Four Red Crown. Say status." Kevin heard the crew of
the missile cruiser U@S Bunker Hill call out his craft's call sign on
the squadron frequency.

Kevin eyed the radio and shifted his gaze back toward the Mig. The Iraqi
flew three four zero at Mach 1.8. Kevin slowly closed the range to eight
nautical miles.

"Wolfpack Two One Four, your bogey is Waterloo Red. Return to base."

Kevin didn't respond.

"Dammit, Crackers! I know you're listening. Turn around now, dammit!

That Migs heading home. It's off limits! Turn back! NOW!" cried
Commander John Mcdeere over the squadron frequency. Kevin blinked twice
in surprise, not expecting to hear his commanding officer's voice on the
radio. Must havejust been launched as Alert Five to backup, thought
Kevin.

The Mig was now less than three miles away. Kevin was closing. He could
see its white-hot exhausts dodging the low hills by the coast. He stayed
with it, trying to get a lock.

"Dammit, Crackers! If you ever want to fly again, you better turn your
craft around immediately!"

Kevin felt the left console switches until he located the radio,
flipping it off and on a few times before switching it off. The radio
went dead.

"Jesus, Crackers! What in the heck you think you're doing? You heard
Ghost. You better-" Campbell began to say.

"Soup, just watch for Migs, would you?"

"Like fucking shit! You better turn this plane around right now!"

"No way."

"Turn around, Crackers, or I'll eject us both!"

"We're too fast-besides I know you want this guy as bad as I do!

C'mon, man! That asshole just killed Shadow and Baby Johnson in cold
blood in front of your eyes. Are you going to let him get away with it?

I'm going after the fucker, and whether you like it or not, you're
coming along! Got that?"

Campbell mumbled something in a half-apologetic tone, but Kevin wasn't
listening anymore. He felt the fury from within consuming him as he
blinked his watery eyes to focus them on the tiny point in the sky less
than three miles away. The HUD painted a white diamond over it. Through
tears, he saw the craft grow larger and larger. The solid wall of blue
five hundred feet below abruptly turned brown and green as the Tomcat
reached the coastal plains of Iraq.

Kevin hurtled after the Mig-29 in a tight turn, but the Fulcrum
countered by going into a steep climb and turn to the left, momentarily
widening the gap. Kevin stayed on him and closed. He glanced at the
white diamond.

"Select heat!" noted Campbell.

"Switching ... range?"

"Two miles and closing."

Kevin kept closing the gap as the Iraqi craft attempted to outmaneuver
him. The diamond flashed. "Fox two!"

The solid-propellant rocket boosted the missile to Mach 3 and Kevin
watched its river of smoke hastening toward the Mig.

With one missile locked on his tail, Colonel Abunnasr Manesh
simultaneously pulled the control stick and enabled the flare dispenser
by depressing a button on the control column. The craft responded by
adopting a vertical climb and dispensing a cloud of hot flares. The
American missile went for the decoy as he continued applying rearward
pressure on the control stick to achieve an inverted loop, but the
American fighter stayed with him. Manesh slammed the stick forward left
and felt . his body lifting from the seat and the top of his thighs
pressing against the bands lying flush against the bottom of the
instrument panel, the craft's leg restraint system, as negative g's
piled up on his body. With his eyeballs pounding from the rising blood
pressure in his head, Manesh forced a backward glance and noticed the
Tomcat rolling off behind him and closing. Manesh estimated the American
fighter was now within cannon firing range as both craft sped toward the
ground at one and a half times the speed of sound.

When Lieutenant Kevin Dalton estimated that the runaway Mig had entered
the range of his Vulcan cannon, he switched to guns and lined up the
craft on the pipper of the HUD, but the moment he released the first
burst of 20mm fire, the Mig cut sharp left, ruining his angle.

Cursing inside his oxygen mask, Kevin swung the control stick left and
followed it. Halfway through the turn, the Mig inverted and switched
directions before dropping to treetop level and heading back for the
beach. Kevin remained with him but could not get an angle on the agile
Fulcrum. The maneuverability of the Mig was remarkable.

Kevin watched the Mig's air brakes pop up. He reacted just in time,
cutting back throttles and engaging the F-14's air brake. His Tomcat
nearly rammed into the Mig as Kevin watched his airspeed drop to 195
knots. With the wings in the fully forward position, Kevin saddled his
Tomcat directly behind the Fulcrum.

"There ... got ya!" Kevin screamed as he finally lined up the Mig and
let go a second burst. The Mig turned right at the last possible moment
before continuing on a parallel course with the shoreline, a few feet
over the sandy beach.

Manesh smiled and laughed out loud when he spotted the hundreds of birds
gathered on the beach, eating fish trapped from the last high tide. He
had the American fighter exactly where he wanted it. He flipped the
manualt override switch of the computer that automatically controlled
the doors to the huge main engine air inlets, and closed them. As the
main doors closed, the system automatically opened a row of alternative
inlet apertures above each wing, designed to prevent foreign-object
damage during takeoff and landings. He cut back throttles and his
airspeed dropped below 170 knots.

Suddenly, a cloud of birds left the sand as the roaring jets approached.
Manesh maintained the same course as a bloody mass of bones and feathers
covered his windscreen, but that didn't matter. Not a single winged
animal could fit through the narrow slots of the secondary air intake of
the two Tumanskii turbofans. The Mig emerged through the cloud with some
leading edge damage, but otherwise in one piece. Manesh pulled back the
control stick, added power, and rose to three hundred feet before making
a steep right turn. The American craft remained inside the bloody cloud.

"Engine stall! Engine Stall!" screamed Lieutenant Campbell as dozens of
birds were sucked into the main air inlets of the F- 1 4.

Kevin Dalton saw the two bright amber stall lights winking and managed
to pull the jet up in time to prevent total damage to one of the two
engines. Alarms blared while the control panel suddenly filled with
warning lights.

"Lost the starboard engine!" shouted Campbell.

Kevin applied full throttle, but was disappointed at the sluggishness of
his craft with only one turbofan providing the thrust, even in full
afterburner. He accelerated into the no-fly zone, dominated by the
Allies, hoping the Mig would not dare follow him.

"We're spiked! The Mig's got us locked! He's gonna fire!"

Kevin spotted hills to his left and darted toward them in an attempt to
lose the Mig, aware that he didn't stand a chance ov e r the ocean,
where he could not hide.

Forcing the wounded Tomcat into a tight turn, he flew in between two
hills and continued inland, trying to coax every last knot out of his
crippled jet. The Mig was within machine gun range, but did not fire. As
Kevin flew deeper inside Iraq, the Mig closed in for the kill.

Soup Campbell switched frequency to Guard, the UHF emergency channel
monitored by most Allied forces. "May Day! May Day! This is Wolfpack Two
One Four. We're single engine with a Mig at our six!"

Kevin turned his head. The Mig was too close. What are you waiting for,
asshole?

Kevin threw his craft in a set of alternating right and left turns
combined with climbs, but the Mig-29 easily stayed with him.

As the ocean disappeared behind the low hills, the Mig opened fire.

Kevin jammed the stick forward and forced his wounded jet to hug the
rugged terrain.

"This is Wolfpack Two One Four. We're in trouble. Repeat. We're in
trouble. Request immediate assistance, over."

"Two One Four, this is Gypsy One Oh, U.S. Air Force. You're sixty miles
away. I'll be there in two minutes."

"Two minutes? This thing'll be over in seconds!"

" Hang in there, One Four."

The Mig managed to position itself behind the Tomcat once more and
opened fire. This time Kevin was trapped. A river of bullets blasted
across the left wing. Bits and pieces of the wing's aluminum skin washed
away in the slipstream.

Kevin cut left and went into a shallow climb to get out of the way of
-MAL the M'G's cannon, but due to the Tomcat's sluggishness, the Mig
reacquired in seconds and fired again.

"Jesus! Mayday, Mayday. This is Wolfpack-"

Kevin heard a loud blast as several 30mm rounds pierced the back of the
canopy.

With the image of Lancaster's falling F-14 still vivid in his mind,
Kevin glanced at the artificial horizon to verify if he was within the
ejection envelope. His angles of bank and pitch were within the
sixty-degree maximum, but he still had a 350-knot indicated airspeed
instead of the maximum recommended of 250 knots. Too bad He pulled the
ejection handles.

The entire world appeared to catch fire around him as the canopy blew up
and back 0.3 seconds after he'd pulled on the handle, clearing the way
as the two Martin-Baker ejection seats were shot upward by the rocket
booster under each seat. The booster under Kevin's seat-a
solid-propellant shaped charge-gave him an initial high level boost for
0. 1 5 seconds to get him out of the plane, followed by a sustained low
level boost for an additional 0.85 seconds to get him away from the
Tomcat. The moment the ejection seat left the plane, the URT-33
Automatic Guard System-an emergency radio integrated with the ejection
seat-kicked in, broadcasting an emergency signal.

Kevin closed his eyes and bellowed into his mask as twelve g's nearly
crushed his shoulders and the windblast pressed him against the back of
the seat while he hurtled higher and higher. He blinked in astonishment
as the earth and sky changed positions over and over. Then the pressure
was gone, along with the initial windblast, replaced by a peaceful
breeze that appeared to caress him as his mind fiddled at the edge of
unconsciousness. He was free-falling, and it gave him a peaceful feeling
of isolation.

A sudden jerk told him that the parachute had safely deployed. It was
the last conscious input before his thoughts faded away and everything
went black.

Ishmael Barzani and Abdul Mozakhu turned their heads away from their
weapons instructor when they heard the cannon fire followed by a loud
bang in the sky. All three raced for the rustic windows of their safe
house'outside the town of Ash Shinafiyah by the shores of the Euphrates
River.

"What was that?" asked Abdul, puzzled.

"I think it was a bomb of some sort," responded Ishmael.

"That was not a bomb," corrected their instructor. "That was an
airplane."

All three stared at the burning dirty gray cloud hanging in midair. From
its center, two bright objects shot up in a parabolic curve, trailing
narrow white streaks. The objects, which by now Ishmael had assumed were
pilots ejecting from a fighter, started to fall at their apex. White
parachutes opening indicated that the pilots, if still alive, would make
it safely to ground as the craft's charred remains plummeted to earth.

"Enemy pilots!" Abdul shouted. "Allah has given us enemy pilots!

Hurry, Isha! We must get to them before the search party finds them."

"Those are not Iraqi pilots," noted the instructor.

Abdul looked back at his teacher. "What ... how do you "The parachute.
It's not red. The Iraqi government use' 'stly s MO Russian planes;
remember our training last month?"

Both Kurds looked at one another before nodding in agreement.

"Who do you think they are?" asked Ishmael, pointing at the white
parachutes gently swirling down to earth.

"I believe those are Allied pilots, most likely American."

"American?" Ishmael glanced at Abdul and grinned widely, which stretched
his gums, sending a bolt of pain across his face. Ignoring it, Ishmael
stared into Abdul's green eyes as the trainer looked on. The Bai would
no doubt be very grateful if they del'vered him two strayed pilots. It
would probably mean more of the sophisticated Javelins, and perhaps even
some Stingers.

"We must rescue them, Abdul."

"Yes, Isha.

They turned to the instructor, who was holding one of the Javelin
shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles Ishmael had received the day
before.

"Would you help us, K-halela?"

The Mossad operative, who had arrived just a few hours before, hesitated
at first, but then slowly agreed.

"This is Sandy Five Five. Do you copy, over?"

Nothing.

"This is Sandy Five Five. Do you copy, over?"

For the past few minutes, the pilot of an A-10 Warthog, Colonel Jake
Leary, U.S. Air Force, had been unsuccessfully . trying to contact the
Navy jet. An F- 1 5 had managed to make contact just before the Tomcat
went off the air, and it had requested cover for the downed pilots.
Leary had left his flight of A-10s engaging in a war exercise in Kuwait
after picking up the F-14's beacon on Guard at about the same time that
the F-15's pilot had requested cover. Leary had rushed to the site to
cover the downed pilots until a combat search-and-rescue (CSAR)
helicopter could arrive. His call sign, "Sandy," followed the tradition
of CSARTRAINED pilots flying propeller-driven ground-attack planes in
Vietnam.

The early morning sun filtered through the armored canopy, forcing Leary
to lower the green visor over his flying helmet as he readjusted power
to obtain maximum speed. The quiet noise from the two General Electric
high-bypass turbofans increased as the craft accelerated to 400 knots.

Leary sat in what was called an "armored bathtub" of thick titanium,
resistant to all but the heaviest caliber guns. The two large turbofans
'n the rear of the craft were heavily armored, quiet, and had relatively
clool exhausts, which made the A-10 hard to lock onto with heat-seeking
SAMS. The craft's long wings provided the necessary lift during slow
flights and fast turns. It also served as the platform for a warload of
over twelve thousand pounds.

Nudging the stick forward while cutting back throttle, he descended to
one thousand feet and approached the crash site. Whoever did this got
the hell out of here mightyfast, he thought as he banked his plane
thirty degrees to the right to search for any parachutes.

Leary smiled when he spotted them, roughly two miles apart. He couldn't
see anyone moving. Maybe they're hurt, he thought, while praying that
the rescue chopper would get here before the Iraqis did. He checked his
fuel situation and frowned. He updated the coordinates to the rescue
team before heading for the refueling tanker track just south of the
border.

Fifteen minutes later, Leary approached a Boeing KC-135 Stratotanker
from the stern, at 300 knots. The boom was lowered from the tail of the
tanker as Leary closed in. When he was less than sixty feet from the
craft, he flipped the refueling switch. The cover of the air-to-air
refueling receptacle slid back between the cockpit and the nose of the
craft, over the 30mm gun.

With the boom swirling softly under the tanker, at the end of the
sixty-foot hose, Leary brought his A-10 to within five feet of the boom
and waited to snag it. He knew that the trick to this maneuver was to
get close enough to the boom and wait to get it aligned with the
receptacle, before closing in fast and latching on. A slow approach for
the last few feet would result in the boom being pushed away by the air
displaced by the -Nose of the Warthog.

As the boom swirled in his direction, Leary inched the throttles forward
to grab it. He made contact and began refueling. A few minutes later, he
backed away from the tanker, closed the cover over the receptacle, and
headed back toward Wolfpack Two One Four.

AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Two. 1345 Local
Time.

Maintaining full afterburners and remaining less than fifty feet above
ground, Manesh had managed to avoid Allied fighters in the area. He now
brought his Mig-29 to a full stop inside the bunker as the ground crew
approached the craft, whose leading edges had been severely damaged by
the birds. The moment the hinged canopy pivoted up, Manesh removed his
helmet and scratched his face and head. He had not been able to shower
in over two weeks, and he itched all over.

"Is the search party on its way as ordered?"

"Yes, Colonel. The two Gazelles are on the way."

"When did they leave?"

"Ten minutes ago, sir."

"Did they take the soldiers and the missiles along?"

"Yes, sir. They should be close to the crash site by now."

"Good," Manesh said, aware that the F-14 had gone down roughly thirty
miles south of the airfield, well within the no-fly zone.

"Fix my Mig immediately!"

"But Colonel, we might not have the spares necessa-"

"I don't care if you need to get them from Baghdad! Get my fighter fixed
right away!" Without waiting for a response, Manesh headed for the
communications bunker across the hot tarmac. The American pilots would
be a phenomena] trophy for his government, but Manesh needed to get
there first and capture them before the Americans tried to rescue them.
He also needed to inform Baghdad of the aerial victory.

The bright, scorching sun shown through his closed eyelids as Lieutenant
Kevin Dalton drifted painfully back into consciousness. His limbs,
tangled with the nylon lines of his parachute and still aching from the
pounding g's, were not the only parts of his body in pain. His head felt
like it was about to burst from the worst headache Kevin had had in his
entire life. The pounding of veins against his temples was unbearable.
With his eyes closed, he fumbled with a zipper on his flight suit and
pulled out a pair of dark sunglasses. His elbows stung. He looked down
at his arms and noticed that the sleeves of his flight suit were ripped
below the elbows, probably a result of his rolling on the ground during
his parachute landing. He grabbed the Gerber hunting knife strapped to
his right leg and cut off the shreds, leaving his tanned forearms
exposed. He checked the rest of his body, and except for a bloody patch
on his flight suit above the left knee, again probably due to the fall,
he found no other damage, beyond general soreness due to the ejection.
He knew that adrenaline was lessening the effects of the windblast and
the spinal compression resulting from being shot out of the Tomcat like
a bullet. In another hour, he would be really hurting.

His mind was in turmoil, trying to cope with the reality that he had
been shot down after disobeying Mcdeere's direct order to break off the
pursuit. Kevin lowered his gaze and shook his head, very much aware of
what that meant. For one thing, he reflected, his negligence to comply
with that order had caused the loss of a thirty-million-dollar plane.
That charge alone would be enough to keep him from flying for the rest
of his days.

Even with the sunglasses on, Kevin blinked several times, trying to
bring the cluster of trees in front of him into focus as he got to his
feet and unstrapped the belts of his parachute. He could see the burning
wreck in the distance, estimating it to be a few thousand feet away. The
black smoke swirling up to the heavens marked the crash site for
everyone.

Kevin unstrapped his seat survival kit, the removable section of the
ejection seat that he had automatically attached himself to when
strapping in. It had remained with him through ejection and parachute
landing. He then removed his torso harness, unzipped his G suit,
collected the parachute, and dragged them to the trees, where he used
his helmet to dig out an area under the thick underbrush. He buried it
all, including the helmet.

Kevin reached inside the seat survival kit and disabled the URT-33
beacon. This he did for two important reasons. First, the system
broadcast an emergency signal at 243.0 MHZ, the Guard emergency
frequency, which not only was being monitored by Allied forces but also
by Iraqi forces. Second, the URT-33 signal would cancel transmissions
from Kevin's Motorola PRC-90 hand-held radio, which also operated on the
Guard frequency as a beacon-like the URT-33-or as a two-way radio.

He reached for the PRC-90, wishing he had been issued the newer PRC-112
which, unlike the old model, could be encrypted to jump frequencies to
prevent unwanted listeners from monitoring Allied radio conversations.
Unfortunately, there just weren't enough PRC-112s to go around, and the
Ranger got stuck with the old PRC-90s.

He flipped the radio on, set it to Talk-two-way communications and tried
to reach Campbell for about thirty seconds. He got no response. Kevin
had no idea if Campbell was alive or not. He couldn't remember much
after the ejection. He scanned the surroundings but could see no sign of
Campbell or his parachute. Kevin sighed, switched off the radio, and
strapped it back into a pouch of the gear vest he wore over his flight
suit. During survival training, he'd been told to conserve batteries and
only use the beacon for a few seconds every hour or so while moving away
from the crash site. He'd also been told to switch to Talk only after
getting a visual on the rescue team.

He briefly inspected his survival kit, an assortment of essentials: a
basic first-aid kit, a dozen aspirins (he quickly swallowed three),
flares, signaling mirrors, lip balm, sunscreen, and a compass, among
other items. Strapped to his belt was a slim, plastic canteen holding
eleven ounces of drinking water. Kevin opened a zipper on the gear vest
and inspected the plastic pouch holding another eleven ounces of water.
Twenty-two ounces of water would have ranked Kevin in the lower
twenty-five percent of the informal competition among aviators to see
who could carry more water in his flight gear. Kevin knew pilots who
carried up to a hundred ounces of water. Wishing now he were one of
those pilots, Kevin drank a few ounces from the plastic canteen.

Evaluating his current situation, he decided that his first priority
should be to move away from the crash site. An enemy search team could
be on its way, especially since that Mig pilot had seen them eject. The
problem with moving too far away from his current position, Kevin
reasoned, was that he would also make it difficult for his people to
find him, although they could still locate him by homing in on the
PRC-90's beacon. Depending totally on his radio, however, was risky;
rescue teams knew it was possible for the enemy to get a hold of a
downed pilot's radio to draw some choppers in for an ambush. The Air
Tasking Orders provided some level of protection by issuing new call
signs every day, but Kevin knew that those call signs could also be
monitored by the Iraqis listening to Guard. Kevin didn't see any other
choice, though. He had to play it cautious and assume the enemy would
come looking for him first. The last thing he needed to add to his list
of problems was an extended vacation in Saddam Hussein's Baghdad
Baltimore, with daily tortures on the house. Or worse yet, to get
paraded in chains around Baghdad.

On the practical side, Kevin decided to remain close to the river he had
spotted a mile or two east of his position, feeling certain that for the
next few days water would be his most precious commodity.

The sound of helicopters broke his train of thought. Choppers? So soon?

Clutching the stainless steel handle of the slim Smith & Wesson Model 39
he had just removed from a Velcro-secured pouch of his gear vest, Kevin
hid in the trees. He wasn't sure who would get to him first and He saw
them: two helicopters flying in formation roughly fifty feet above the
ground. They made their approach from the northeast. That alone told
Kevin they were most likely unfriendly, since he expected a rescue team
to come in from the south. He switched his radio back to Talk and left
the Guard channel open. Static. No one was trying to communicate with
him.

The helicopters made a wide circle over what was left of Wolfpack Two
One Four before briefly landing, dropping a search party about a half
mile away from Kevin, and heading back out the same way they had come
in. The soldiers disappeared behind a cluster of trees almost as fast as
the choppers got out of sight. Kevin went through his options again.
Should he try to make a run for it to put some distance between the
wreck and himself Or should he stick around? A rescue party could very
likely be on its way, he reasoned, remembering the craft he had managed
to make contact with before the Mig had shot him down. Its pilot no
doubt had marked his coordinates and passed them to some rescue unit
standing by at the border. In addition, the URT-33 had broadcast his
position to everyone from the moment he had ejected until he had finally
shut it off.

Kevin decided to move to another cluster of trees a few hundred yards
east. Five minutes later, he heard a jet in the distance. He searched
for it and smiled when he recognized the shape. An A-10!

Kevin brought the radio to his lips.

"Sandy, this is Wolfpack Two One Four Alpha," Colonel Jake Leary heard
the F- 1 4 pilot say, telling him not only the plane's call sign, but
also that he was the pilot of the craft. Had it been the RIO, the downed
American would had finished the call sign with Bravo, instead of Alpha.

"One Four, Sandy Five Five. You hot?"

"Affirmative, Sandy. There are some unfriendlies roughly two
thousandfeet northwest of myfix.

"Five Five."

Leary advanced the throttles of the Warthog and climbed to a thousand
feet to scan the ... there! He had them. Leary spotted a group of five
or six men hiding in the sparse underbrush near a small cluster of trees
precisely where the F- 1 4 pilot said they would be. He put the A in a
dive and watched his speed indicator climb to 500 knots. He switched to
guns.

Lieutenant Ali Umesh lay behind the rest of his team in the overgrowth
next to the trees. He was one of the few officers in his division who
had received training on the Soviet-made SA-7b "Grail" shoulder-launched
SAM. Umesh, however, preferred the more reliable Stinger, for which he
had been comprehensively trained by the CIA during the Iraq-Iran war.
Next to him, Umesh had two Grails waiting for an American helicopter.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, an American fighter dropped on them, and a
second later the deafening noise of its cannon ripped across the desert.
Fortunately, Umesh was the closest one to the trees and was able to
reach cover while hauling both Grails. The rounds reached his position.

Colonel Leary unloaded almost one hundred depleted uranium 30mm rounds
on the Iraqis. The projectiles created a cloud of dust and sand where
the soldiers had been a fraction of a second before. He stopped firing,
climbed to five thousand feet, and circled the area to survey the
damage.

Umesh silently prayed to Allah for the strength to endure the agonizing
pain of a severed foot. In spite of his quick reaction, a round had
amputated his right foot exactly at the ankle. Struggling to remain
calm, the Iraqi lieutenant tore off the shirt of his uniform and tied it
firmly around the wound to keep his blood from gushing out. His finger
came in direct contact with broken bones and torn cartilage. The smell
of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. He fought the impulse to vomit; he
was a soldier in battle and had to remain focused. Unlike his fellow
soldiers, who had been pureed into a mass of human refuse, Umesh had
managed to survive the jet's initial attack, and there was a chance that
its pilot might think that he had cleared the way for a rescue
helicopter. Umesh clenched his teeth and crawled to the edge of the
trees, where he saw the American jet circling overhead. With his eyes
filling from the excruciating pain, he kneeled down, reached for an
SA-7b, set it over his right shoulder, and aimed it. He trained it on
the circling jet but did not try to acquire a fix. The Grail was not
designed to take on a jet. It was neither fast enough nor had the range
to endure a long chase.

Umesh endured the pain and waited for Allah to deliver him an American
helicopter. A minute later, his prayers were answered.

With the desert sand just twenty feet below his helicopter's landing
gear, Captain Patrick W. Heersen, U.S. Air Force, flew almost by
instinct, right hand on the cyclic-or center stick-and left hand on the
collective lever of the HH-60G Pave Hawk helicopter, a special variant
of the Sikorsky Black Hawk configured for combat search and rescue. His
copilot, Lieutenant Geraldo Parra, kept a close eye for any sign of
Iraqis on the ground as the 25,000-pound chopper hugged the desert floor
while cruising at 185 knots. In the rear of the craft, in addition to
two airmen manning the M-60 machine guns on both opened side doors,
Heersen's crew consisted of two pararescue-men, better known as PJS
(Parachute Jumpers), who were specially trained for this type of
mission. Cover for this run would be provided by an A-10, which had just
finished sanitizing the area.

"There, sir. See it?" said Parra over the intercom. Heersen noticed a
trail of black smoke in the distance. "Got it!" He swung the cyclic in
the direction of the F- 1 4 wreck. The moment he had the chopper's nose
lined up with the crash site, he added back pressure to the cyclic and
lowered the collective with gentle, controlled movements to slow down
the helicopter while maintaining altitude. It took two seconds for the
large Sikorsky helicopter to respond to Heersen's commands. The craft
decelerated to 100 knots.

"Sandy, Sundance Four Oh, over," said Heersen over his radio.

"Four Oh, Sandy. All is clear. Go in and pick up our boy. I'll keep
circling."

"Roger, Sandy." Heersen pushed the manual frequency scan button on the
cyclic's handle to Guard Talk, and spoke on his voice-activated headset.

"Sundance Four Oh."

"Hello, Four Oh. This is Wolfpack Two One Four Alpha, and I read you
loud and clear."

"Pop some smoke, One Four."

"Roger."

A half minute later, Heersen turned the craft in the direction of red
smoke filtering through a cluster of trees a half mile away.

Umesh aimed the optical sighting and tracking device of his SA-7b
missile on the right turboshaft exhaust of the large American
helicopter. The craft was less than one thousand feet away heading
toward a cloud of red smoke near a cluster of trees. He activated the
infrared missile seeker. With the target so close, the missile lock
indicator light went on almost instantly.

Umesh squeezed the trigger.

The launcher jerked back as the twenty-one-pound missile thrust forward,
accelerating to the speed of sound.

"We've been hit! We've been hit! Losing turbine pressure. We're going
down!" Heersen heard Parra scream over the intercom as he scanned the
array of warning lights and instinctively lowered the collective all the
way down to disengage the turbine from the main rotor and enter an
autorotation. The large chopper began a slow descent as the main rotor's
momentum provided enough downward draft to cushion the fall.

Umesh already had the wounded craft centered in the optical sights of
his second SA-7b. As he heard the jets of the American fighter getting
louder,- he achieved missile lock on the left exhaust and fired. The
missile streaked across the sky toward the crippled helicopter. Umesh
heard the thundering cannon of the American fighter, and an instant
later he felt his chest burst open before all went dark.

The second missile found its target, striking the Pave Hawk's main rotor
casing. The giant rotor, still turning, separated from the fuselage. The
Pave Hawk plummeted toward the ground twenty feet below, but the chopper
never made it to the ground in one piece. The rotor struck the
helicopter's center fuselage with such speed that the Kevlar over Nomex
material of the rotor blades sliced through the Pave Hawk's center
fuselage, cutting into the integral fuel tanks. The resulting explosion
engulfed the craft.

A lieutenant Kevin Dalton stared in sheer disbelief at the burning
helicopter. The Iraqis had used him as bait. They had played him
beautifully. Jesus Christ! This can't be really happening to me! he
thought as his emotional side momentarily took over, but the soldier in
him quickly regained control.

Priorities, Kevin. First, he had to get out of that area. He simply had
to distance himself from the wreck to avoid capture.

"Wolfpack Two One Four, Sandy, over.

Kevin brought the radio to his lips. "Jesus, Sandy! Bastards used me as
bait."

"Get away from thisplace, Onefour. Get off the air and come back on in a
few hours. We'll try again at dusk.

"Roger, Sandy."

"Hang in there, One Four. We'll pull you out. I can cover you for
another twenty minutes before I need to refuel.

"One Four out."

Kevin switched off the PRC-90. Guided by a small compass-also a part of
his survival gear-he moved southeast, past the cluster of trees and
across the vegetation-rich lands surrounding the Euphrates. He estimated
reaching the river in a couple of hours, assuming the Iraqis didn't find
him first.

USS RANGER. ARABIAN SEA, NEAR THE GULF OF OMAN. Day Two. 1530 Local
Time.

Enduring the pain in his stomach, Lieutenant Delgado left the medical
bay and walked past the mess area under a latticework of pipes and
wires. He reached a ladder and went up one level, where he found more
pipes on the ceiling and walls, along with firefighting hoses and
numerous unidentified buttons and knobs. He reached the next large steel
door on the adequately lit corridor. Each watertight door, spaced thirty
or so feet apart, Delgado knew, had been designed to isolate sections of
the ship from flooding. Nearly three thousand separate compartments
could be individually sealed to prevent the ship from sinking during
battle.

Slowly going up one more level, he reached Mcdeere's quarters. The door
was closed. He knocked twice but got no response. Cursing the orderly
who had told him that his squadron's commanding officer was in his
quarters, Delgado began to turn around when Mcdeere's rough voice
crackled from the other side of the door.

"Yeah?"

Sir?"

"Yeah? Who's that?"

"Lieutenant Delgado, sir. I've just heard the news about the crash."

The door opened. Delgado glanced past the albino officer and noticed the
typewriter on his desk next to several handwritten pages. Mcdeere's room
was as big as Delgado's, but, the commander didn't have to share it with
anyone.

Mcdeere exhaled. "We lost two F-14s. From what we can tell, Shadow's
plane exploded upon impacting the waters off the coast of Kuwait.
Crackers disobeyed my direct order to get his ass back in here and was
also shot down, somewhere over Iraq."

"Dios mio! Any survivors, sir?"

"Not at this point. We got a couple of helicopters searching the area
where Shadow's plane went down."

"What about Crackers, sir?"

"Our forces at the border are handling it. No news yet."

"What does that mean, sir?"

Mcdeere rubbed his eyes'before raising his right eyebrow. The freckles
on his pale face appeared to come alive. "Chico, that means exactly what
it means. There's no news yet! If he's still alive, he'll be facing a
court-martial for insubordination of the highest degree. I haven't
decided what to do about Soup. That's if either of the two's still
alive."

Delgado was caught off guard by Mcdeere's comments and remained silent
for a few moments, debating whether or not he should back off and let
the brass deal with this problem.

"Are the CSAR guys gonna try for a rescue, sir?"

Medeere frowned. "Listen, Chico. I think I understand that Crackers was
your friend, but the reason why he got shot down was sheer negligence. I
should have suspended him when I had the chance. Now it's too late for
that, and I have not one but two downed jets and four missing aviators
in my sack. Dammit!" After driving a fist into his palm, Mcdeere
breathed deeply a few times before speaking again. "I expect you to act
like the professional you are and leave all rescue matters to our guys
in Saudi. Believe me, I would love to get Crackers back here so that I
can personally tattoo the soles of my shoes on his ass, but it's out of
my hands. You'll resume flying as soon as you feel up to it. In the
meantime, relax and get some rest. The way you're holding your stomach
sure looks like you could use a break."

Mcdeere turned and went back to his work. Delgado quietly left.

THE WHITE HOUSE. Day Two. 0750 Local Time.

Wearing a YMCA light gray sweatshirt, matching jogging pants, white
tennis shoes, and a University of Arkansas baseball cap, President Bill
Clinton returned from his morning jog, holding a Mcdonald's paper cup
filled with steaming coffee in his right hand. As he walked up the steps
leading to a White House side entrance, he saw Chelsea coming out, books
in her left hand. His daughter wore her gray school uniform, dark shoes,
her long hair put up in a bun. She gave him a playful smile.

"Hello, darling," he said, meeting her halfway up the steps, where
Chelsea threw her arms around the Commander in Chief and gave him a kiss
on the left cheek. "Hi, Dad," she said, eyes glistening at him.

"Off to school, I presume-" The president stopped in mid-sentence when
he spotted his defense secretary, dressed in a light brown suit, jumping
out of a black limousine and walking fast in his direction.

"I'm afraid we have a situation, Mr. President," the secretary said,
breathing hard as he reached the bottom of the steps.

With Chelsea standing by his side, the president took a sip of coffee.
He turned to Chelsea and kissed her forehead. "Have a great day, babe."

"You too, Dad." Chelsea continued down the steps and disappeared inside
another limo.

"Yes?" the president said to the defense secretary in a somewhat annoyed
voice. Clinton cherished the little time he spent with his family.

"The Iraqis just downed two F-14s, sir."

"How?" was all the president said, and for the next few minutes the
secretary gave him all the details-including a report on how Iraq had
actually set up a trap for the Americans, using old Mig-21s as decoys-as
they walked inside the White House and toward the Oval Office, where the
president slowly paced back and forth in front of his desk. He could
just picture Saddam Hussein at that very moment, boasting of how his
superior Air Force had downed two of the famous American Tomcats. Two
pilots had apparently died in the Persian Gulf, the other two were
missing. A CSAR effort was underway. No news on that just yet.

What angered the president more than anything was the fact that he
couldn't retaliate. He even wondered if Saddam Hussein would try to use
a nuke on someone in response for the three Mig-2 the F-14s got before
they too were shot down-assuming the Iraqi leader already had any
nuclear weapons assembled.

With his defense secretary sitting on one of the sofas, President
Clinton stopped in front of a window behind his desk and stared at the
trees for a long time. He had lost the initiative in this conflict and
was simply reacting to Saddam's moves, refusing to retaliate for fear of
a nuclear response. He desperately needed to find the location of the
nukes and the boosters to switch to an offensive game.

In the short term, he had the downed Tomcats to deal with. The fact that
the crew of one of the F-14s had been shot down after disobeying an
order to turn back bothered him somewhat, but Clinton refused to pass
judgment on that right away. Clinton felt it was inappropriate actually,
downright unfair-to judge the actions of a pilot who had just seen his
leader shot out of the sky by an Iraqi Mig, especially after the trap
the Iraqis had set up for the two Navy fighters.

With his sight lost in the cumulus clouds dotting the sky over
Washington, President Clinton's thoughts turned to the downed American
pilots and their families.

SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Two. 1600 Local Time.

Lieutenant Kevin Dalton spotted the white parachute in between two
clusters of trees almost two miles from the crash site. After circling
the area to make sure it wasn't a trap, he walked toward the parachute
and reached it a few minutes later. Kevin froze. Campbell was still
strapped to the ejection seat, face down. The bullet hole in the back of
his helmet told Kevin all he needed to know.

Oh, God. What have I done? A wave of guilt engulfed him. Seeing his RIO,
his responsibility, dead because of Kevin's own negligence was more than
he could emotionally handle.

Kevin turned Campbell over and felt bile rushing up his throat when he
realized that Campbell's face-along with a chunk of the visor was gone.
All that remained was a mess of hair, flesh, and bones supported by a
blood-stained neck.

He pulled away in horror. "Oh, God! Oh, Sweet Jesus!"

Kevin couldn't control the convulsion and leaned over to vomit. He
dropped to his hands and knees and breathed deeply, struggling to regain
control of his heaving body. He waited a few minutes until he managed to
relax somewhat.

, Forcing his mind to ignore the sight, Kevin got up and broke both the
URT-33 beacon and Campbell's PRC-90 radio-after removing the batteries.
He took Campbell's automatic, two eight-shot spare clips, his water
bottle, and the survival kit, no longer of any use to the naval officer
Kevin had helped kill.

Without looking back once, Kevin continued moving southeast.

BAGHDAD.

Day Two. 1620 Local Time.

Inside a dark wood-paneled rectangular room in one of his dozen
luxurious underground bunkers in Baghdad, President Saddam Hussein
smoked a cigar while going through his daily reports from the field.
Although his eyes burned, his mouth felt dry, and his stomach was
nauseated from lack of sleep, the Iraqi leader couldn't be more pleased.
His bluff was working on the soft American president, who still had not
retaliated for the Scud attacks, the downed fighters, or the troops
moving south. And the latest field reports showed that an American
rescue helicopter had also been destroyed, killing even more of their
soldiers. The fact that some of his own men and equipment were also lost
in the process was insignificant. Unlike the weak American president,
who Saddam knew could not stomach the loss of even one of his fighting
men, the Iraqi leader was prepared to lose tens of thousands, as long as
he could get revenge for the unmerciful massacres.

After drafting a one-page memo congratulating Air Force Colonel Abunnasr
Manesh for his brilliant plan, and promoting him to the rank of general,
the Iraqi leader got up from the head of the long conference table and
walked to a huge map of the Middle East on the right side of the room.
Through the smoke rising from his cigar, the Iraqi leader's bloodshot
eyes traveled from Baghdad to a red X marking a spot thirty miles south
of An Najaf, the location of the Allahbad Processing Complex.

Soon, Saddam Hussein thought, licking his dry lips, looking at the red
X, and then at Tel Aviv, Riyadh, and Kuwait City with half-shut eyes.
Slowly, his gaze gravitated to a map of the world on the opposite wall,
found North America, and zeroed in on the East Coast states. New York
City and Washington, D. C The places where Saddam would soon send secret
envoys carrying very special cargoes.

The corners of Saddam's thick black mustache rose a bit as a smile
flashed across his lined face. Images of American civilians being
rescued after the bombing in New York brought a small wave of
satisfaction to his mind, but it in no way compared to the tidal wave of
joy the Iraqi president would experience when the first nuclear
detonation on American soil incinerated a million imperialists in the
blink of an eye.

Soon, Mr. Clinton, the Mother of all Battles shall commence.

NON-CONVENTIONAL WARFARE Should the Americans become embroiled, we will
make them swim in their own blood, God willing.

-Saddain Hussein ALLAHBAI) PROCESSING COMPLEX, SOUTH OF AN NAJAF, IRAQ.
Day Two. 1630 Local Time.

A single ten-foot-tall chain-link fence surrounded the complex. At a
glance, it looked as if it had been built almost as a mere formality,
just something to outline the outer limits of the dairy products
facility. But a closer look revealed that this was no ordinary fence.
Thick electric cables, carrying one thousand volts, were connected to
the top of the fence at a dozen places around the perimeter. Inside the
electric walls, over one hundred Iraqi soldiers, with enough weaponry to
stop a small army, were hidden throughout the complex in underground
bunkers or camouflaged buildings. Along both sides of the huge warehouse
at the front of the complex were a half dozen shelters housing
Soviet-made ZSU-23-4 Shilka antiaircraft artillery systems. At each
corner of the square complex, inside the perimeter, were
well-camouflaged batteries of Soviet-made SA-6 Gainful surface-to-air
missiles. A single gate at the front of the complex allowed access to
the otherwise electrically sealed facility.

Under a bright midafternoon sun, Major Mohammed Hassoud stormed down the
narrow walkway connecting the living quarters of the complex's security
forces to the large warehouse at the front of the facility. His strides
were long and confident as he approached the chief scientist, Dr. Radsul
Sakkar, who stood on the opposite end of the paved walkway. The doctor
appeared nervous. Beads of sweat accumulated on his upper lip and bald
head.

"My staff is getting very worried about the recent incidents with the
Americans, Major. They are all wondering if we might be under attack
soon."

"Allahbad is not a military target, Doctor. As far as the world is
concerned, this place only makes dairy products. The Allies won't dare
touch it. You can tell your staff that we are not in any danger,"
responded Hassoud in his deep authoritative voice.

A thick beard covered most of Hassoud's face. With a full head of
coal-black hair almost meeting his thick eyebrows, all that one could
really see of the major's face was a scarred nose and his eyes.

There was, however, a very good reason why the major kept so much hair
on his face, even during the hottest months of the year. Nearly fifteen
years before, during the short period of time when Iran had backed the
Kurds' struggle for independence, Hassoud had fought the rebels south of
Sulaymaniyah, a city twenty miles west of the border with Iran. Using
shoulder-launched RPGS, the Kurds had ambushed Hassoud's tank platoon.
Most of his men died during the heavy gunfight, which only lasted a
minute. Hassoud, however, was captured alive. Instead of killing him,
though, the Kurds tied him down to the ground and slowly carved his skin
with their knives. Hassoud passed out from the pain after the first few
minutes, and when he woke up, he found himself covered with bandages at
a hospital in Baghdad. Another patrol had surprised the Kurds before
they were finished with Hassoud.

A month later, when the bandages were removed, Hassoud vomited at the
sight of his own face, disfigured beyond his own recognition-as was most
of his body. Due to his rank, his government allowed him to receive some
level of plastic surgery, but even that didn't help much. The Kurds had
done too thorough a job on him. From that day on, Hassoud swore revenge
on all Kurds, a personal vendetta against the tribe of savages that had
marked him for life.

"Why don't you tell them yourself, Major?" Sakkar asked. "After all, I'm
sure your word of assurance that all is well will be better welcomed
than mine."

Hassoud momentarily looked away. The last thing he needed was to give a
lecture to a bunch of nervous scientists with half-inch-thick glasses.
Then again, they were developing the ultimate weapon for his country,
and that was what really mattered. Besides, in the six months that he
had been in charge of the complex's security, he had never been allowed
inside the underground facility. His orders were limited to the proper
maintenance of the well-camouflaged antiaircraft equipment and
conducting regular evacuation drills. He decided this was an opportunity
to actually see what it was he was defending. "Of course, Doctor. I'll
be delighted to assure your staff that we're safe."

"Thank you, Major."

Hassoud, who did not have the slightest idea how the scientists were
going about modifying the Russian rocket boosters they had received
recently, led the way into the gigantic warehouse, where technicians and
workers unloaded the contents of trucks making deliveries for the
complex.

Elevators, mused Hassoud as they walked across the concrete floor to the
other side of the building and approached the huge brown doors of the
service elevator that led underground. The major pressed the call
button. That was one of the few things built at Allahbad which were not
properly thought out beforehand. Not because it was unreliable-the large
elevator had never failed from the first day it went into operation -but
because the warehouse was a one-story building. An elevator would have
looked more natural on the west section of the plant, where the complex
was three stories high.

The bell rang and the door opened. Hassoud made a gesture for Sakkar to
go in first. Once inside, Hassoud glanced at the floor numbers starting
at level zero all the way down to minus five. He pressed level minus
two.

Twenty seconds later and fifty feet below the desert sands, the doors
slid to the side, revealing a cavernous, two-acre room.

Inside, over one hundred men and women in white suits moved about
carrying notepads or pushing equipment carts. The area, separated from
Hassoud and Sakkar by an immense glass wall, was divided into thirty
stations, each with its own staff and equipment to support the required
missile modifications.

Major Hpssoud stepped across the stark-white floor and reached the
control station, where a technician handed each man a white suit, rubber
gloves, and boots made out of a special material. In addition, each had
to wear a headpiece that covered their hair, mouth, and nose, with an
opening for the eyes. Over that they slid hoods with a clear section at
eye level. After each man was properly dressed, the technician pressed a
button on his control panel and a glass door opened.

Hassoud turned around. "Doctor, is this supposed to protect me? I
thought that the suit had to be totally sealed."

Sakkar laughed. "There is no danger in there, Major, unless something
goes wrong. Do you see those red lights over the sirens on the back
wall?"

"Yes. What about them?"

"If they go off, it means that there has been a leak from somewhere.
These suits will temporarily protect your body from exposure until you
cain get out of the room, which is one hundred percent sealed." He
looked at Hassoud and pointed to the door. "After you, Major."

Hassoud went into the small compartment, followed by Sakkar. As the door
closed behind them, air jets started loosening dirt particles off their
nearly clean suits and they were sucked out by a huge air extractor
overhead. As Sakkar explained, the extractor was connected to one of two
huge ventilation tunnels that ran on either side of the facility from
the lowest level up to the surface, where they were heavily camouflaged
to prevent detection from the skies. The cleaning procedure lasted a
minute. The air quality inside the small compartment was brought up to
the same class-one-thousand environment as that inside the large working
area which, the doctor explained, meant there were a maximum of one
thousand particles of dirt for every one million particles of air-a
necessity for the delicate operations underway. To put things in
perspective, the doctor further explained that a regular room contained
somewhere in the neighborhood of 75,000 particles of dirt for every one
million particles of air.

They walked to the center of the large "clean room," as the scientists
called it. Sakkar addressed the group.

"May I have your attention, please? Ladies and gentlemen, please!"

All discussions quieted down as the scientific community recognized
Hassoud's deep voice.

"I just want you to be assured that our facility has never been in any
danger of attack, nor will it ever be. It is very wisely disguised, and
the fact that not a single bomb has been dropped here indicates our
enemies still think Allahbad is nothing but a milk factory. In the
extremely rare event that a stray bomb or missile hits the plant above,
let me remind you of the dozens of feet of reinforced concrete that
isolates us from the outside world. I'll be surprised if any of you even
hears a bomb go off. So please, don't worry about external
threats-that's my job. Yours is to continue as you were. Thank you for
your attention."

"Everyone back to work," commanded Sakkar.

Conversation went up a few decibels and people began to move around the
area again.

"How are we progressing, Doctor?" Hassoud asked as he glanced over at
station number thirteen to his right where a technician worked next to
the four-feet-tall hollow nose section of a missile. Next to it, on the
table, was a large steel ball and a long cylindrical steel piece, whose
grooved end appeared large enough to fit the round opening on top of the
ball.

"Is that ... the  ... "Yes, Major, you are looking at what will soon be
a twenty-kiloton nuclear warhead, with equivalent destructive power to
the ones the American imperialists used against Japan at the end of
World War II."

"It doesn't look like much," responded Hassoud. "How does it work?" The
moment he said that, Hassoud noticed the doctor's face brightening up.
It was obvious to him that Sakkar truly enjoyed his work.

"Well, our weapon will be quite primitive when compared to the
Americans' arsenal, but it will be just as effective for the job it is
intended to do. It works on the principle of atomic fission, meaning the
splitting of an atom, which produces the heat and radiation
characteristic of an atomic explosion. There are two ways of achieving
enough energy to split an atom. Our method is called the implosion type.
Let me explain. See this large steel ball?" Sakkar pointed to the ball
that Hassoud had already spotted next to the hollow nosecap.

"Yes."

"Well, this ball is hollow. The inside wall is lined with a common
explosive that surrounds one of the plutonium spheres that arrived a few
months ago. The basic idea is to use the blast from the explosive to
compress the plutonium in the center, therefore triggering a nuclear
chain reaction."

"That doesn't sound too difficult, Doctor. If that's all it takes to
generate a nuclear explosion, I'm surprised other countries have not
developed it yet."

"Actually, it's a lot more complicated than that. You need to have the
exact amount of plutonium in the center, called the critical mass.
Without it, it won't matter how much you compress the plutonium with
conventional explosives; it won't trigger the necessary self-sustained
chain reaction. Also, say somehow you figure out your critical mass.

"You still need a way of compressing it. You can't just pack explosives
around it and trigger them. The explosives must burn perfectly
concentrically toward the center to achieve the desired compression of
the plutonium. In addition, there are hundreds of other complications,
but those are the two main obstacles that prevent more nations from
getting the bomb."

Hassoud and Sakkar walked around the area for a few more minutes as the
doctor proudly explained other phases of their operation, including
loading the armed weapon inside the hollow head and missile deployment.
To prevent accidental explosions, the warheads would be automatically
armed after the missile reached an altitude of ten thousand feet.

Sakkar also mentioned that each warhead was enclosed in a steel casing
to prevent its destruction if an American missile intercepted it. This
had been a design directive from Baghdad after the 1991 Gulf War
experience, when Patriot missiles would strike only the booster section
of a. Scud, but the resulting explosion would also destroy the warhead.
In order for a Patriot to truly destroy the new missile, it would have
to score a direct hit on the cone section, cracking the steel enclosure
and destroying the warhead inside. Otherwise, the warhead would simply
fall back to earth, detonating at an altitude of five hundred feet, when
an altimeter fuse would trigger the chain reaction of the plutonium
core.

Hassoud noticed a number of tables packed with hardware off to the far
left side of the room. Unlike the main stations with numbers from one to
thirty, these smaller tables were labeled with letters, starting with
"A," all the way to "L."

"What is on those tables over there, Doctor? Spare parts?" the major
asked.

Sakkar said, "Those are the components for weapons we plan to assemble
for the second phase of our nuclear project."

Hassoud tilted his head. "Second phase? Are we building more missiles?"

"No," the scientist responded. "No more missiles, just more bombs."

"As backup?"

Sakkar shook his head. "No. Those bombs will leave the complex after
assembly and will be delivered to Baghdad."

"Baghdad? Why?"

"To be smuggled out of the country."

"Smuggled? Where are they going?"

"New York City and Washington, D.C."

Hassoud gazed into the scientist's eyes and smiled broadly.

With that, both men headed for the single door leading to the cleaning
room. After handing the clean room gear to the waiting technician, they
headed for the elevator.

SALMAN Asao AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Two. 1700
Local Time.

"Colonel Halston? Colonel Halston?"

Robert Bourdeaux shifted his gaze from a set of satellite photos spread
across the desk of Peter Halston to the young airman, who stormed inside
the colonel's private tent. Halston also looked in the private's
direction.

"Yes, what's the matter?"

"Sir, we lost the Pave Hawk we sent out to rescue the downed F- 1 4
pilots."

Halston pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn! How in the hell did that
happen?"

"Looks like it got nailed by a handheld SAM, sir. We were monitoring
their communications with one of the pilots on the ground, and then all
hell broke loose for a few seconds before their radio went dead."

"Who was supposed to cover them?"

The private shifted his weight. "An A-10, sir. It supposedly sanitized
the area before the chopper went in, but somehow the A-10 guy missed
somebody. The Iraqis fired two SAMS at the chopper. Two hits."

Halston pounded a fist on the desk and shook his head. "Dammit!

Do we know if there were any survivors?"

"Not likely, sir. The A-10 flew over the area and couldn't get any
response."

"Well, have the backup rescue team standing by."

Bourdeaux watched Halston pace back and forth inside the tent. "I can't
believe this," said Halston. "I just can't fucking believe it. Shit!" He
headed out of the tent. "Where you going?"

"I'll be right back."

Meal hours for dinner had just begun at the base's mess area-a huge
desert-camouflage tent that could hold almost one hundred soldiers at
once. A cafeteria-style line with trays and utensils covered one entire
side of the rectangular room. An array of tables, three wide by almost
twenty deep, were mostly empty at such an early hour. Most everyone ate
at around 1830, when the sun went down.

Pave Hawk helicopter pilot Captain Amanda Green, U.S. Air Force, quietly
sat by herself in a corner, fiddling with her meal. She hated greasy
food and felt so nauseated at the smell of hamburgers and fries that she
wound up pushing the tray away. The action got the attention of a
sergeant sitting three tables down.

"Don't want your hot chow, Captain?"

"Ali, no, Sergeant."

"In that case, you don't mind if I ... "Help yourself" She passed over
the entire food tray, save for the carton of milk, to the triple-striper
who could not have been older than twenty-five.

"Thank you, Captain."

You're welcome," she casually responded as she noticed several newcomers
entering the mess area and looking in her direction while talking among
themselves.

She ignored them and simply stared out the ventilation holes on the
canvas wall to her left. That kind of attention didn't bother her
anymore. She had grown used to being treated like that for years by both
commanding officers and fellow pilots. And all because I don't carry
that silly burden between my legs, reflected Amanda as the new GIS waved
at her. She continue to ignore them, smiling internally because it was
obvious to her that they hadn't yet recognized the rank patches on her
shoulders. In reality, she was used to living and working among men From
the days when she had been the only girl in a family of five. She'd also
been the youngest. From an early age, she had had to put up with her
brothers' jokes and put-downs until she had slowly gained their solemn
respect, which to this day had never ceased. Her father had been
different, though. A helicopter pilot himself during Vietnam, he'd felt
very proud that his daughter had chosen to follow in his footsteps,
unlike her "tough" brothers, who chose the safer, but boring, civilian
life.

Her physical appearance was another factor that had made it harder for
her to succeed as an Air Force helicopter test pilot. Her prominent
features, hard to hide in the desert-camouflaged, tight-fitting
fatigues, revealed a slim yet well-proportioned body, which on many
occasions had been the cause of animalistic responses from the troops,
especially from those who didn't know her reputation as a pilot.
Although federal law prevented women from piloting aircraft in combat,
as a test pilot Amanda was able to log enough hours on the Pave Hawk to
qualify as a pilot for SAR outside Iraq. She had successfully piloted
her craft on several noncombat missions in Saudi Arabia, ranging from
rescuing downed pilots, who had safely made it out of Iraq before
bailing out, to evacuating injured personnel from all sorts of
accidents. Even though Amanda knew she was contributing to the overall
war effort, the soldier in her demanded combat.

The laughter died down when one of the new GIS walked by her and spotted
the bars on her feminine, narrow shoulders. Amanda noticed Colonel Peter
Halston's well-built figure entering the tent, briefly scanning the
tables until his gaze met hers. He started walking in her direction but
stopped at another table, where Captain Orlando Delaney, U.S. Army, a
top-notch Apache helicopter pilot, sat by himself eating his meal.

Amanda had liked the good-looking Halston from the first day that she
had arrived at the base a couple of months back. Although there was a
chemistry between them that had turned into an instant friendship, the
relationship had stagnated after the first month for a few reasons.
First, as Saddam Hussein grew restless, the colonel's responsibilities
had grown to the point that he now barely had time to handle the
multiple duties the base commander had assigned to him, much less have
any time left for her. Second, Amanda had always noticed Halston quickly
distancing himself the moment they became too comfortable with each
other's company. Amanda felt it had to do with Halston's late wife, who
Halston had clearly loved. And third, Halston was Amanda's superior; a
personal relationship between them was not advisable.

Amanda noticed Halston shaking hands with Captain Delaney before
approaching her table and sitting down.

"Morning, Pete."

"Hello, Amanda. How are things?"

"Like usual," she responded, rolling her eyes.

Halston looked two tables down at the GIS and understood. "I'm gonna
have a word with them." Halston begun to get up.

Amanda motioned him to sit down. "Please, Pete, don't. It'll only make
things worse for me. Now tell me, how can I help you?"

Halston glanced at the GIS, exhaled, and sat back down. That was another
reason she felt so attracted to Halston. The colonel had always been
very professional, never once making the slightest remark about her
being a female pilot. Peter Haiston was a decent man, a good soldier,
and a friend. She only wished they could go one step further.

"Did you hear about the Pave Hawk crash?"

Amanda shook her head. Halston told her the story.

"Oh, Jesus. And Captain Heersen? I knew him well. This is terrible.
Anything I can do?"

"Well, I just got Delaney's help for CSAR. Next time we get a call, I
want to have him in his Apache covering the rescue craft in addition to
the Sandies."

"Anything I can do?" she repeated.

"Ali ... well, you know the rules about women in combat. I think you're
doing a fine job where-"

"Right. Three days ago I had to pick up a couple of grunts in the middle
of desert ten miles south of here because the idiots ran out of gas.
That was really some mission." She shook her head and lowered her gaze.
Her fingers toyed with the carton of milk.

"C'mon, Amanda."

"Just remember, Pete, if you need me to go inside Iraq, I'll be in and
out before anyone notices," she responded.

Halston closed his eyes for a few moments. "Look, after today I'm down
to two Pave Hawks and four pilots, one of whom is in the hospital with
early pneumonia. I've got a request into CENTAF for another two pilots,
but in the meantime, if we get in a crunch, maybe I'll let you go in as
a copilot ... maybe."

"I can do it," she responded firmly.

Halston nodded once and got up. "All right, Amanda. I hope I don't
regret this."

"You won't. But don't rush off. How have you been? I don't think we've
talked in two weeks."

Halston slowly sat back down. "All right, I guess. I think this job's
getting to me. Iraq's latest flights into the zone, troop deployments,
and Scud attacks have kept me quite busy. Don't even have time to
breathe."

Amanda gave him a smile. "Somehow I think you'll be able to pull
through."

"Well, I sure hope so."

"I sure miss your company," she said, taking advantage of the
opportunity to probe a bit farther.

Their eyes locked for a few seconds before Halston looked away.

"Ali, yeah ... Listen, I really gotta run. I'm up to my eyeballs." He
got up.

"See you around, Colonel," she said, raising her right eyebrow. The
message was clear.

Halston gave her a slight nod before turning around and walking away.

Colonel Peter Halston. What is it with you?

Amanda opened her carton of milk and took a sip.

THE WHITE HOUSE. Day Two. 0920 Local Time.

Leaning back against the edge of his desk, President Clinton felt a knot
form in his stomach as his defense secretary gave him the bad news about
the downed Pave Hawk. The death toll was up to eight, not counting the
two pilots who ejected over Iraq. Scanning the Oval Office, the
president's gaze shifted from his defense secretary to Undersecretary
Kenneth Draper, finally zeroing in on the director of the CIA, Craig
Kettler.

Still wearing his jogging suit, the president said, "Craig, how many
people do you have actively working on the images gathered by our KH- I
Is over the region?"

Kettler tilted his head, arranging his pock-marked face into the tired
gravity of his portrait at the entrance of the CIA headquarters. The
group that analyzed and interpreted satellite images was the National
Photographic Interpretation Center (NPIC), a component of the CIA's
Directorate of Science and Technology. Located not in Langley but next
to the Washington Navy Yard at First and M streets in downtown
Washington, D.C., the NPIC headquarters consisted of three buildings
covering two city blocks. With three shifts and two thousand employees,
the NPIC was responsible for all aspects of satellite surveillance, from
cleaning distortions made by the satellites' imaging sensors and
atmospheric effects, to providing strategic and tactical intelligence
reports to all departments of the U.S. government. It was the NPIC that
told President Kennedy about the missiles in Cuba and President Reagan
about the terrorist training camps in Libya. It was the NPIC that helped
the CIA predict the 1967 Arab-Israeli war, the Soviet invasion of
Afghanistan, and the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait. It was within the NPIC's
charter to locate marijuana and cocaine fields, track the movement of
warships, measure the extent of forest fires, and ensure that the old
Soviet Union complied with arms limitation agreements during the Cold
War years.

"Mr. President," Kettler said, "the NPIC is a very large organization
with a very large task. Out of two thousand employees, I currently have
almost one hundred working exclusively on this. That's three times the
regular size of the team covering the Mid-"

"That is not what I asked you," the president interrupted. "I know that
you use an army of computer experts to receive the digital images and
clean them up before passing them on to the workstations of the actual
analysts. My question is, after the images are processed and enhanced,
how many of your NPIC analysts are actively combing through the hundreds
of images collected by the satellites every ninety minutes?"

Kettler shifted his weight uncomfortably on the cream sofa before
saying, "About thirty, sir."

The president briefly closed his eyes. "This is the most critical event
of the moment, Craig. I want you to put as many operations on hold as
feasibly possible and divert those resources to this region, starting
this minute"

"I'll take care of that right away, Mr. President."

"Thank you, Craig." Clinton checked his watch. "Ken."

General Kenneth Draper looked at the president. "Yes, sir?"

"I want you to hop on a plane-preferably an Air Force jet-and get over
to Riyadh right away. I want you to stay close to General Marshall and
also keep close contact with the CIA director, with his man Bourdeaux,
and also with this office. You're an expert in the area. Please give me
a close assessment of the situation as you see it after you arrive, and
from then on, I'll expect at least daily reports," the president said,
referring to three-star General Roy Marshall, currently commanding
CENTAF in Riyadh. "Of course, you can always call me directly in an
emergency"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Well, if you'll now excuse me, gentlemen, I think I'm going to take a
quick shower."

Everyone stood up and left the room in single file.

SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Two. 1720 Local Time.

After refueling, the two Aerospatiale Gazelle utility helicopters
closely followed the vegetation-rich flatlands surrounding the
Euphrates, each under the power of a single turboshaft, which enabled
the Iraqi craft to carry two pods of Matra 68mm rockets and two 7.62mm
machine guns.

The two choppers hovered over the slow flowing waters of the ancient
river and then continued downstream, one over each bank. Inside, two
spotters scanned the shores with binoculars in a last-minute attempt to
find the American pilots before sundown.

Lieutenant Kevin Dalton heard the steady whop whop of the helicopters
approaching and hid behind a cluster of trees two hundred feet from the
river, surprised that the Iraqis were able to pin down his position so
quickly. He had fast-walked nonstop for a few hours, putting what he
theorized L)between himself and the crash site. Now that the adrenaline
had left his system, Kevin felt sore all over.

He removed his sunglasses, wiped the sweat off his forehead, then wiped
the glasses against the right shoulder of his flight suit, and put them
back on. He frowned as he felt the two small empty canteens strapped to
the belt of his suit. The plastic water pouch was also empty.

Although he had forced himself to space out water breaks during his
short but exhausting journey, it had only taken him two hours to drink
it all. Feeling the beginnings of blisters on his dry lips, Kevin rubbed
on more lip balm before slowly moving to the other side of his small
forest blanket, where he watched the choppers continue down the river.
It took all his self-control to stop himself from running to the river
and immersing his entire body in the cool, refreshing water, but the
professional soldier in him told him that the choppers were still too
close. If they turned around while he was in the open between the river
and the trees, they would most likely spot him.

Cursing the helicopter pilots for taking too long to move down stream,
and feeling light-headed from exposure to the sun, Kevin sat down and
leaned his head against the thin trunk of a tree. He closed his eyes and
tried to put things in perspective, but soon realized-again that there
was no perspective. He was doomed if captured, and he was doomed if he
managed to get away. It was a choice between Iraqi prison or military
prison. Neither looked attractive to him at the very least.

But that, he thought, is the price I have to pay for playing John Wayne
...  and Campbell, and the crew of the rescue Pave Hawk ... shit. Guilt
engulfed him, taking him down the avenue of truth he had tried to avoid
since the crash hours ago: his stupidity had caused death to so many
others. I might just as well have pulled the trigger myself, Kevin
concluded. He knew their blood was on his hands. The Navy ... Mcdeere
would see to it that Kevin paid dearly for disobeying a direct order.
Jesus, what have I done?

Reflecting on the futility of his own situation, Kevin did not realize
that the loud noise he had heard belonged to the helicopters coming back
and not to the last few seconds of a dogfight his mind played over and
over again,'tormenting him with Campbell's final words before everything
around them exploded:

"Ar-rajul!"

Kevin's attention snapped back to the present, but it was too late. The
helicopters were back, and because he had moved to the edge of the
cluster of trees, he was now in plain view. A soldier, wearing
camouflage fatigues and crouched by the small open door behind the
pilot's seat of the Gazelle helicopter, pointed at him from only two
hundred feet away. He noticed the other helicopter coming around. They
were going to sandwich him.

Clutching the Smith & Wesson Model 39, he raced for a larger section of
forest over one thousand feet away. He had only taken a few steps when
the second helicopter appeared in front of him. Its sidemounted machine
gun pods were trained in his direction. The craft hung there in midair.
The pilot appeared immobile behind the control stick.

Kevin understood their message: Move and you're dead. He complied as the
second helicopter moved toward him from the side and started to descend.

Khalela Yishaid had watched the entire episode from the large section of
forest the American pilot had been running toward. She looked at Ishmael
Barzani.

"Are you sure, Ishmael? There could be reprisals against your people for
this."

"No more damage than what's already been done."

"Very well," she responded as she picked up one of the two Javelin
launcher units Abdul Mozakhu had carried on his shoulders.

Khalela clipped one of the missile/canister combinations that ishmael
had strapped on his back onto the launcher unit. She lifted the
assembled unit, rested the canister section on her right shoulder, and
centered the closest helicopter on the monocular sight.

"You're absolutely certain you want to do this, right?"

"Inshallah, Khalela! If Allah wills it."

With sweat running down her forehead and neck, soaking the white cotton
T-shirt she wore underneath the buttoned-down desertcamouflage fatigues,
Khalela realigned the target on the crosshairs of the Javelin's sights
and fired.

The two-stage solid propellant rocket motor came to life, thrusting the
twenty-six-pound missile to Mach 1.8. She kept the helicopter centered
in her sight as the semiautomatic line-of-sight command guidance system
sent the necessary control commands to the missile. The Javelin's
control surfaces responded to the launcher unit's radio co%mand by
moving in the desired direction.

Lieutenant Kevin Dalton was the only one that noticed the flash
preceding the trail of smoke moving directly toward the helicopter in
front of him. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground and rolled away
from the craft and toward the small cluster of trees. His elbows, back,
and knees stung with every roll. The sunglasses flew to the side.
Through the ear-numbing rotor noise, Kevin heard the chopper's machine
guns vomiting rounds. The earth seemed to explode around him as 7.62mm
rounds showered the area where he had been a fraction of a second
before. A burning pain in his left leg was followed by a shock wave irom
ine blast as the missile's warhead struck the craft under the main rotor
shaft, instantly severing it. The three thirty-four-foot-long blades
tried to continue their trajectory, but without a pivot point, they
rotated out of control and darted through the air over Kevin's head at
astounding speed, disintegrating as they crashed on the other side of
the cluster of trees. The craft's turbofan spun itself into burnout
without the counter-load from the rotors.

Hiding behind some trees, Kevin cringed as he watched the craft plummet
to the ground, exploding on impact. The blast threw him back against the
trees. Disoriented from the powerful blow, Kevin crawled around the
trees in an effort to escape the flames that consumed the fallen craft
and its occupants. Only then did he realize he had been shot in the leg.
Blood flowed from a wound a couple of inches below the knee, staining
the leg of his flight suit. Feeling light-headed, he pulled a
handkerchief from a side pocket and tied it slightly above the wound to
slow down the blood loss. Through the smoke, he saw the second
helicopter circle the first before heading for the spot at the edge of
the clearing where the missile had come from. He struggled to remain
conscious, but the combination of the stress from the ejection, the
arduous journey, and the gunshot were enough to throw him once again
into the void as the blurry shape of the helicopter disappeared behind a
wall of flames.

Khalela already had the second helicopter centered in the sight of the
launcher unit to which she had just clipped a second missile-canister
combination. The craft approached her a few feet above the ground with
its machine guns ready to fire. Khalela's finger was fixed on the
weapon's trigger when the helicopter's guns came to life.

She fired.

As the missile, fitted with flares, left the launcher, a sensor in the
launcher's arming unit detected the flares and automatically commanded
the four-foot-long missile to keep to the center of Khalela's field of
view.

Ignoring the muzzle flashes from the chopper's guns, Khalela maintained
her position. She focused her concentration on keeping the helicopter's
cabin centered within the crosshairs of the launcher's sights. Bullets
grazed the branches over her position, forcing Ishmael and Abdul to drop
to ground.

Suddenly, a stray 7.62mm bullet impacted the steel base of the launcher
unit and ricocheted upward. The blow was strong enough to push Khalela
back a few feet and point the launcher unit up. The missile, receiving
new instructions from the line-of-sight guidance system, also darted
upward, entirely missing the incoming craft.

Khalela threw the weapon to the side, dropped to the ground, and rolled
to the left. As she did so, she reached for her 9mm Beretta. Briefly
stopping twenty feet away from her previous position, she spotted
Ishmael and Abdul signaling her to go around the other side. She
understood, and getting to her feet, she raced along the side of the
tree line, which curved out and around the helicopter. She could barely
see Ishmael's slim figure on the other side of the half-moon-shaped
clearing. She reached a position directly perpendicular to the path of
the craft, which had stopped firing and hung, menacing, by the edge of
the clearing, about a hundred feet from where Khalela stood with her
weapon cocked and aimed.

The slow rattle of Ishmael's AK-47 rifle from the other side gave the
signal. Khalela rushed forward as the helicopter, barely five feet off
the ground, rotated toward the source of gunfire and away from her. Her
rugged boots dug into the sandy terrain as she closed the gap while the
machine guns blasted a blanket of rounds in a thundering, earthtrembling
display of force. She reached the tail rotor and ducked under to the
other side.

As the craft shook under the recoil of the powerful weapons, Khalela
brought her weapon up and fired the Beretta through the open rear door
and into the faces of two startled soldiers sitting in the back. The
pilot, still concentrating on the edge of the clearing, while
maintaining the craft in a near-perfect hover, did not hear the two
shots.

Khalela backed away several feet, kneeled down, and trained the Pistol
on the front Plexiglas cover of the stationary craft. She fired into it
three times. The bullets pierced through and struck the pilot, who
snapped forward and over the cyclic. The Gazelle responded by moving
forward.

Khalela's long hair swayed in the wind as she raced across the clearing
and back toward the protective blanket of the forest. She knew she had
only a few seconds before the craft crashed, and she used them to the
fullest, kicking as hard as she could against the soft terrain. Her
strides were long and powerful. Her eyes focused solely on the
approaching trees. The blast came, and the shock wave propelled her
forward almost ten feet. Landing sideways on the ground, she glanced
back at the blazing orange ball of flames by the tree line, dangerously
near the Kurdish guerrillas.

Ishmael Barzani felt as close to Allah as he had ever been. The
helicopter's forward momentum was barely stopped by several large trees
next to the clearing, isolating Abdul and him from the flames that
engulfed the doomed craft.

"Allah is truly with us today, my friend!" he said triumphantly, gazing
into Abdul's green eyes. The large rebel, still shaking from the close
call, got to his feet and wiped the sand off his clothes. "That was too
close, Isha. We risked much just to save the American."

"The American will be useful to us, Abdul. The Bai will be most generous
when we bring the pilot to him."

The two Kurdish- rebels walked around the wreck and into the clearing,
where Khalela was already waiting for them. They approached the American
pilot.

An hour later, back in the Kurdish hideout, Khalela Yishaid finished
cleaning the unconscious pilot's leg wound using the first-aid kits the
pilot had carried with him, along with his other survival gear. She
still couldn't believe she was doing this, but Ishmael had felt very
strongly about keeping him alive.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Khalela removed the pilot's dogtags and
studied them. Lieutenant Kevin Dalton. She placed them in a pocket of
her fatigues and stared at the sunburned face of the stranger. Khalela
brought a hand up to his face and gently pushed up an eyelid: brown
eyes. Well, Lieutenant Dalton, looks like you got lucky today.

Khalela's gaze left the American's face and refocused out the small
window above the bed. She stared at the early evening stars, inhaled
deeply, and ran a hand through her long hair. The stars always brought
back memories; brought back the pain. She remembered gazing at them
countless times during countless nights with her older sister Suleima
long ago. Decades ago.

Khalela stared at the stars, but in her mind she saw only the past.

She was seven then, and could still remember the blasts that sliced
through the silent classroom like a knife, forcing Khalela to dive under
her desk, pressing her little hands against her ears. Khalela had prayed
to God that the sounds would go away, but they were soon joined by
mortar fire from the hills surrounding her village. The Arabs by the
border were coming again. Khalela's older sister had come from another
classroom, grabbed her by the collar and dragged her out of the
building. They broke into a run toward the village a few thousand feet
away. When they reached it, several Arabs soldiers were already there.
She saw them while hiding behind the only wall left of her house. The
soldiers, dressed in olive-green fatigues and armed with automatic
weapons, walked over dozens of corpses searching for survivors, firing
salvo after salvo into the heads of the few who had lived through the
initial mortar massacre. And then she saw the twisted shape of her
mother lying next to her father, their eyes wide open and faces
contorted.

Khalela had gagged, then started to sob. A soldier turned his head and
saw them. Before Khalela could react, Suleima pushed her back and
motioned Khalela to hide. The older sister broke into a run. Khalela
tried to stop her, but she was gone before she could react. She didn't
go after Suleima, but remained behind the wall. The shouts came,
followed by cries and more laughter. When Khalela had looked again, she
saw the Arabs tearing off Suleima's dress while making a circle around
her. One forced Suleima down. Khalela had closed her eyes and curled up
behind the wall, flanked by broken cinder blocks, wood and other debris.
She had listened to her sister's cries, listened to her pleas as the
Arabs took turns.

Khalela had lost track of time. It could have been minutes or hours. She
had remained still long after the cries and the laughter subsided. Long
after two shots fired in rapid succession put an end to Suleima's cries.
Long after the Arabs swept over her village, her family, her sister
Suleima ... her life.

Drenched in sweat, Khalela jumped when she felt a hand on her right
shoulder. Startled she got up and spun around.

"Are you all right?" asked the giant Abdul, arching his thick black
eyebrows into triangles.

Khalela briefly closed her eyes and wiped off her cheeks with her
sleeve. "Ye-yes, I'm fine."

"Ishmael wants to know if the American will survive."

She nodded. The Kurd turned and left.

Khalela Yishaid gave the stars a final glance, silently apologizing to
her dead sister. She knew she was responsible. From that day on, the
flashback had always come back. Always reminded her that she had sinned,
had caused pain to the person that she had loved most dearly in this
world ... But I didn't mean to make so much noise, Suleima. I didn't. It
just happened. It just ... please forgive me ... please!

Khalela inhaled deeply and silently left the room.

MILITARY INTELLIGENCE. Military Intelligence-a contradiction in terms.

-Oswald Garrison Villard AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN
IRAQ. Day Two. 1920 Local Time.

Newly promoted General Abunnasr Manesh paced back and forth behind
Fassan Tabriz, a young communications specialist operating the portable
gear stationed inside the only air-conditioned bunker on the base, a
necessity for all the state-of-the-art radio equipment. What could have
gone wrong? Manesh asked himself. The first part of the mission had gone
perfectly. He had successfully destroyed an American rescue helicopter.
His government had indeed been correct about the way the American
government felt toward the fighting men: they hated to see one of them
die or taken prisoner and were willing to risk the lives of many more
just to save one. Incredible.

Manesh chewed his lower lip in thought. The search-and-rescue mission
was supposed to have been a fairly simple one: a stunned pilot shot down
over hostile desert, miles away from friendly lines. But somehow they
had lost contact with the two helicopters almost two hours ago.

Manesh left the bunker and was welcomed by a cool breeze. He glanced at
the early evening stars as he rolled up the sleeves of his khaki
long-sleeved shirt and walked toward the sleeping quarters. He went in
and opened the first door on his left.

The inside was dark and the air heavy. Five men slept there, all pilots.
One of them raised his head and recognized him.

"Istaigaza!" the young pilot shouted to wake up the others as he came to
attention. Within seconds, the rest of the men had leaped out of their
cots and stood motionless in their underwear.

"At ease, my brothers. I am very glad to see that you are using one of
Allah's best weapons: rest. A clear mind is the best weapon against the
enemy!"

"Inshallah!" all responded in unison.

He paused briefly to look into their fierce eyes. There was not an ounce
of doubt in them. They were indeed Allah's Army. "The American pilot is
still at large. I need a pilot and a gunner first thing tomorrow
morning!"

Manesh smiled when all five pilots stepped forward in unison. Now more
than ever he needed the support of his people to keep him alive and
well. The promotion to general came with plenty of strings attached.
With General Qazi Ali dead, Manesh now reported directly to Saddam
Hussein, who had very little tolerance for mistakes.

SALMAN Asai) AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Two. 1930
Local Time.

Colonel Peter Halston's head snapped up when Robert Bourdeaux stormed
into his tent carrying a set of photographs. The CIA officer walked
straight to the desk and spread them across the wooden surface, under
the soft white light of a single bulb dangling from the canvas ceiling
at the end of an electric cord.

"What do you have there, Bob?" asked Halston from his cot in the corner
of the tent.

"A gift from the CIA. Some interesting shots taken by one of our KH- I
Is about an hour ago."

Halston rose from his seat and joined Bourdeaux, already hunched over
the large black-and-white photographs.

"Here he is," Bourdeaux said, his finger pointing to a spot on one of
the photos.

"Who?"

"One of the downed pilots. It has to be him."

"Huh?" Halston mumbled, looking at the photo for a few moments before
saying, "Okay. You got my attention. Tell me about it."

rourdeaux cleared his throat. "These are a set of photographs taken
within a period of three minutes about five miles east of where the F-14
went down. This one," he said, pulling out a photo from the bottom of
the stack, "is the first one of the series. It shows two Iraqi
helicopters, probably searching for our pilots, next to the Euphrates.
Here, take a closer look."

talston leaned forward until his tanned face was within inches of the
photo. He recognized the shapes of the craft: dark circular silhouettes
against the white sand and light-colored water. "All right, I'm with
you."

Bourdeaux pulled a second photo in the sequence. "This one was taken a
minute or so later. Can you find the choppers?"

Halston's eyes searched the shores of the river to no avail. He could
not find them and looked to Bourdeaux.

"See this?" Bourdeaux pointed to a small, dark, oval shape next to the
river. "Here's one and here's the other."

ki "Oh, I see ... they're surrounding this cluster of trees."

"Exactly," said Bourdeaux. "Both choppers are facing a relatively small
cluster of trees next to the river as if they found something or
someone."

"Who? Our boys?"

"Yep. That's what I think. See this small shadow next to the trees. It
moved from where it was on the first photo." He pulled it back out and
put them side by side.

"I'll be damned! Did you figure this out?"

"Nope. Our analysts at the NPIC did. They actually used highresolution
graphics terminals to zoom in and clean up the frames before sending me
digitized copies over the computer link."

"Amazing. How did you know to take photos of that particular area?"

"Actually, you can thank our president for this one. The word from
Langley's that by executive order a number of operations have been put
on hold and the resources diverted to work on this."

"Incredible, but that's only one shadow," Halston said pointing at the
photo. "If you're right in your assumption, that means that the pilots
either got separated after ejecting, or one of them is ..

"Yep. That's what I'm afraid of."

"All right, so what happened after that?"

"This is when it gets better."

Ten minutes later, Haiston walked to the small entry to his tent and
stared at the short row of Apache helicopters lined up on the far side
of the tarmac. He now knew they had to pull the pilot out of there fast.
The Iraqis are not going to be very pleased when they find two of their
helicopters destroyed. What if the helicopters managed to radiofor help?

How long before they react? Haiston asked himself, quickly realizing
that another Iraqi search party was a possibility. The Iraqis would do
just about anything to get their hands on downed American pilots for
propaganda purposes.

A grim look crossed Halston's face. The thought of leaving a pilot in
the hands of those savages was not a pleasant one. He turned around,
walked by Bourdeaux and stared at the KH-11 frames once more. The
evidence was all there. The shots showed the entire incident up to the
point where the second helicopter was destroyed. The smoke from the fire
made the rest of the photographs too blurry for proper interpretation.
As his eyes scanned the images, Halston wondered who had actually
destroyed the craft. There were no Allied fighters in the area at I the
time. Bourdeaux believed the Kurds were responsible. That's a good
ibility. Now the real question is, where did the pilot go? Where did the
POSS Kurds-if indeed they're involved-take him? Without a beacon, it's
impossible to locate him.

Halston sighed and continued staring at the pictures.

SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Two. 2000 Local Time.

For Lieutenant Kevin Dalton, it was the second journey back into
consciousness in the same day. This time, though, he opened his eyes in
comfortable shadows; it was already dark outside. He clenched his teeth
in agonizing pain when he tried to move his left leg, and settled for
just shifting his gaze to inspect the rustic interior of the room, not
knowing whether he was in friendly or hostile hands.

When he felt certain there was no other person in the room with him, he
painfully sat up and stared at the bandage over most of the lower
section of his left leg right above the ankle, also noticing he only
wore his underpants. He spotted the opened first-aid kits from his and
Campbell's survival kits by the foot of the bed.

He remembered how close he had come to the shower of fire from the
cannons of that helicopter. That was right before the blast ... the
pressure ... the heat. Everything after that seemed too cloudy for him
to remember. The blurry shape of the second helicopter was the last
image he had registered before blacking out.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted when a large man with massive
shoulders entered the room carrying two wooden bowls. Kevin sat up
against the wall in defiance at the sight of the menacing-looking Arab.
Both men stared at one another for several seconds until the Arab
extended both hands and smiled.

"Akala ... shariba, " the Arab said.

Kevin shrugged and gave him a puzzled look. a "To eat ... to drink."

Kevin inspected the contents of the bowls. One had dates, the second ...
water!

Startling the Arab, Kevin reached for the bowl on the right and brought
it to his face, gulping it down in seconds. When he lowered the bowl@ he
noticed a second person standing by the door.

"I guess you have met Abdul, Lieutenant Dalton."

Kevin was startled. "The statement had come from an extremely
attractive, tall woman wearing a set of tight-fitting fatigues. Her long
black hair went well with her light olive skin. The top of her fatigues
was unbuttoned down to the middle of her chest, exposing the white
T-shirt she wore underneath.

"How do you know my-" He stopped when he saw his own dogtags hanging off
her left hand. "How did I get here?"

"We spotted you after you ejected. We have been following you since."

"The helicopters ... were you the one ... ?"

"It was us." She approached him. Kevin noticed her tight leg muscles
pumping against the camouflage cloth with every step. She sat on the
edge of the bed. Kevin looked at himself and reached for the blanket,
half-embarrassed.

"Don't worry about that, Lieutenant. I'm a soldier, too."

Kevin blushed and briefly lowered his gaze before staring into the most
beautiful light green eyes he had ever seen. They crowned her high
cheekbones.

"I think I should be grateful, then. You saved my life."

"I doubt that very seriously."

"But you said that you destroyed the helicopter."

"Yes."

"Well, that means ..

The woman drew her lips into a tight smile. "I doubt they would have
killed you ... Kevin?"

Kevin nodded. She continued.

"I think they would most likely have used you as a propaganda weapon."

"Who are you?"

"Who I am is not important at this moment. You are in the hands of
Kurdish guerrillas-but do not worry, they are our allies."

Kevin's gaze became more calculating. "Our allies? Are you part of the
..."

"Coalition? No, I am not. You are going to have to trust me for now. I
am a friend."

Kevin exhaled. "May I at least know your name?"

She smiled once more. "Khalela."

"A very intriguing name. Tell me, what's going to happen to me now?"

"That is out of my hands. For now you must rest, if you want that wound
to heal. You are lucky the round barely grazed your leg. It could have
been a lot worse."

"I need to get in contact with-"

"In time. Right now, my Kurdish friends and I are in the middle of an
important discovery. I'm afraid you are just going to have to come with
us."

"A discovery ... what are you talking about? What discovery?"

"I cannot discuss that now. Again, you are going to have to trust me.

After we are finished with our work, we will take you back across to
your people. I promise."

"Look, where is my radio? All I have to do is enable the beacon and-"

"I'm afraid that will not be possible for now."

"Why not?"

"Because this location is a secret. Bringing rescue helicopters will
draw unwanted attention to this place. Perhaps tomorrow, when we are in
the open."

Kevin leaned his head back against the wall and frowned. "That's just as
well ... shit."

"Excuse me?"

"Ah, don't worry about it. Just a personal problem."

Kevin watched Khalela's eyebrows dropping a bit. She was obviously
studying him, trying to figure him out. "Personal? You mean you have a
family waiting for you?"

"No, no. I wish that was it." it."

"Then? I mean, if you feel like talking about "I disobeyed a direct
order not to engage with that Mig."

"Oh? I thought that was your job. You are a pilot, correct?"

"It's more complicated than that. The Mig bastard mercilessly shot down
one of ours, and machine-gunned the pilot and RIO as they were trying to
eject. I was trying to get even, but in the process I violated our rules
of engagement. I was ordered to turn back, but instead ... well, damn."

"That was terrible of the Mig pilot to do. What kind of Mig was it?"

"Mig-29. Very fast and maneuverable."

"What kind of plane were you in?"

Her eyes rolled in obvious disappointment. "I do not want to sound too
critical, but it seems to me that you were on even terms as far as
airplanes were concerned."

"Thanks a lot! That kind of comment's exactly what I need right now."

"Calm down. It was not an insult. I am just interested in knowing how a
Mig-29 was able to shoot down two F-14s."

"He sneaked in on us flying very low. By the time my leader spotted him
it'was too late. In my case, the bastard tricked me by forcing me to fly
into a cloud of birds. I lost an engine. From then on, I was a sitting
duck. He wasted no time in shooting me down with his cannon."

Khalela tilted her head. "I am very sorry to hear that. Perhaps next
time ..

"There won't be a next time."

She looked at him briefly and got up. "We will talk more later. For now
you should rest. You will need all your strength tomorrow."

"Where are we going?"

"North." She turned around and started walking out.

"Khalela?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

She smiled, and her eyebrows-a bit full for a woman-rose a trifle. "You
are welcome." She turned and left the room.

Kevin sighed, wondering who Khalela really was. She seemed to be
familiar to some degree with Soviet and American fighter planes. Was she
in the military? If so, which country's military? She denied being part
of the coalition, and she seemed too civilized to belong to the Kurds.
So, where's she from? And what about this important discovery north of
here? Is that the only reason she's here? Damn!

Frustrated, Kevin frowned and reached for the bowl filled with dates.

"How did it go?" asked Ishmael Barzani.

"You really want to take him with us?" Khalela Yishaid asked.

"Pilot Dalton will be very valuable later on. Keeping him next to me is
the only way I can make sure he stays alive long enough to bring him to
the Bai. Today you showed us what those weapons are capable of doing.
Remember, Khalela. The Kurdish struggle continues just as it has for
many generations. We must take advantage of every opportunity to get our
hands on new weapons. The American Bai will be most generous when we
bring him pilot Dalton."

"I have my doubts about Dalton being able to endure the trip. He needs
plenty of rest to fully recover from that wound."

"Allah's will prevails. If we are meant to get those weapons, then He
will keep pilot Dalton alive."

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Two. 2030
Local Time.

Robert Bourdeaux sat across from Colonel Peter Haiston at a narrow table
in the deserted mess tent. Meal hours were finished and only a single
soldier worked on the far side of the portable cafeteria-style line,
doing something unidentifiable with a large wrench. Bourdeaux shifted
his gaze back to Halston, who showed signs of severe exhaustion. The job
was really taking a toll on the colonel's athletic body, and this new
conflict was only in its initial stages.

For the last thirty minutes, they had gone over the latest set of KH-11
images, which showed an increase in activity at one of the two dairy
products factories within the five hundred square miles outlined on
Ishmael's map. A place called Allahbad Chemical Complex. At Bourdeaux's
insistence, Halston had gone back to the communications tent and
retrieved the images from previous KH-11 passes, which reconfirmed
Bourdeaux's fears. The processing complex did not have as many supply
and delivery trucks parked beside the large warehouse as it had several
hours back. They were additions. Why? A sudden demand for more dairy
products? Bourdeaux asked himself as his hands flipped through several
eleven-by-fourteen frames.

Bourdeaux's eyes drifted away from the photos, past Halston, and trained
them on one of the Apaches parked outside the mess tent. Additional
trucks at Allahbad ... What does that mean? The number of trucks had
nearly doubled in less than twelve hours. Also, now that they had taken
a closer look at Allahbad, Bourdeaux noticed a number of small shelters
spread out at the perimeter of the complex. He had noticed something
else: several pairs of thick power lines connected to the top of the
fence at various points around the perimeter and quite a few guards
patrolling the area. So much protection for just a milk factory? He also
observed that only a few trucks parked there appeared to be tankers, the
rest looked like regular trucks with canvas-covered long beds.

After inspecting the images, Bourdeaux had immediately contacted the
NPIC, requesting close-up shots of not only Allahbad, but also of the
second dairy products factory within the area of interest. Thirty
minutes later, he had them, and the analyst in him smiled when he saw
that the other milk factory a hundred miles away, near Baghdad, had
mostly tanker trucks regularly flowing in and out of the complex, which
was also not fenced-in or patrolled like Allahbad. In fact, the close-up
KH-11 images had shown people lined up on one side of the complex,
presumably getting their dairy products directly from the plant. The
buildings were similar in size and shape to Allahbad, with the exception
of a warehouse in the front. The complex near Baghdad had what looked
like a distribution center-a rectangular-shaped building -in the front.
One side of the building was used by the tanker trucks and some regular
trucks to load up the dairy products. The line of people went into the
other side of the building, which looked roughly a twentieth the size of
the enormous warehouse at Allahbad. v Bourdeaux shifted his gaze back to
Halston, who now stood by the windows next to the table. Something is
definitely strange about this place.

"I gotta strong hunch here, Pete. I've been around for a while at the
CIA and have seen my share of well-camouflaged sites. The Soviets used
to try to deceive our satellites all the time in the old days. The
Cubans and the Chinese are also good at it. I think the Iraqis are
covering something very important here. Something they don't want us-or
anyone else-to know about. Normally, I would hesitate to jump to any
conclusions, but based on the fact that we know they're trying to
assemble nukes, plus the info I got from Ishmael ... well, I think
Allahbad is our place. Otherwise, why the tight security? Why the
electric fence? Why so many guards? And where are the lines of people?

Where are the tankers carrying milk out of the place? And why all those
trucks?"

Halston rubbed his eyes. "Shit. You got a point there."

"Pete, I need you to get me a C-12 and a pilot. I'm going on a quick
trip tonight."

Halston tilted his head. "Trip? Where to?"

"Riyadh."

"You're going to see Marshall?" asked Halston.

"Yep. I'll make some calls and have my people in Riyadh set it up
immediately," Bourdeaux said. "I'll need all the documents we have on
Allahbad and nearby air defenses ready as soon as possible."

"No problem."

"Thanks." Bourdeaux headed for the communications tent. It was going to
be a long night.

SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Two. 2200 Local Time.

Lieutenant Kevin Dalton woke up with another headache, mixed with cold
sweats. A delayed reaction, he decided, to the antibiotics Abdul had
given him a couple of hours earlier. Now he wished he hadn't taken them.
The risk of infection was very minimal thanks to the careful bandaging
Khalela had applied, something she had done while he was sleeping,
according to Abdul. Abdul-there's some big son of a gun, he mused,
staring at the large frame of the Iranian-born guerrilla hunched back on
a chair against the wall, snoring peacefully. In Abdul's hands was a
wooden cup filled with a clear liquid Abdul had called 'araq. He had
given Kevin a taste of it earlier. Kevin wasn't a regular drinker but
could tolerate several beers or a few stiff drinks, but that 'araq, made
from dates ... now that's some potent shit.

As big as the giant Kurdish rebel was, Kevin had already decided he had
a soft heart when it came to friends. Kevin had noticed that Abdul made
it a personal commitment to see there was nothing that his new American
friend needed.

Communicating through gestures and a few English words Abdul had picked
up from Ishmael, the band's leader, Kevin had learned about some of the
atrocities Ishmael's family, as well as the families of other members of
the group, had been exposed to. When Kevin pointed at Abdul, the large
Kurd had indicated that he was one of the lucky ones. Most of his family
lived in the eastern provinces of Iran, far away from all the madness.
He did indicate that he had a sister living nearby. Kevin was shocked by
the stories he heard. Chemical assassinations of entire villages? Jesus
Christ! What kind of enemy are we fighting? He gazed at three Javelin
missiles leaning against the back wall. And those weapons? How in the
hell did they get them? Black market?

Abdul had opened a small window over Kevin's bed, through which he now
admired a full moon, bashfully hiding behind a cloud under a blanket of
bright stars. The peaceful sight seemed to soothe away the chaos in his
mind and body.

Kevin frowned, realizing that he needed to relieve himself, something he
hadn't done in a couple of hours. He thought about getting Abdul to
carry him outside again, but chose against it, not wishing to disturb
the peaceful sleep of the Iranian giant. Instead, Kevin decided to test
the strength of his leg as well as Khalela's bandage job.

He sat up and moved his good leg to the edge of the bed. Then slowly, he
slid his left leg to the side and clenched his teeth in anticipation of
the pain he had become used to since that afternoon. There was none.
Actually there was some discomfort, but nothing compared to the
agonizing pain five hours ago. His head, however, would not stop its
pounding. The aspirins he'd taken before falling asleep had not done the
job.

Puzzled at how he had managed to recover so quickly, Kevin decided to
stand up on one leg. As he did so, he felt the blood rush toward his
wound. His lower leg began to throb, but it was still manageable pain.
He grabbed the stick Abdul had given him and used it to support part of
his weight.

Confident that he was capable of moving without help, Kevin threw a
blanket over his shoulder-it was cold outside-and slowly walked across
the room. He reached the small living room and then the outside door,
which he pushed open.

He filled his lungs with the cold night air and briefly scanned the
horizon before walking to the side of the house and relieving himself.

When he was finished, he walked back to the front and was startled to
see Khalela with a weapon leveled at him. She wore a white,
short-sleeved T-shirt tucked inside the pants of her fatigues. Kevin
couldn't help but notice that she wore no bra; her dark nipples pressed
against the thin cotton fabric. She looked terrific in the moonlight. At
night her eyes didn't look quite as green, but somewhere in between
green and blue.

That was not a wise thing to do, Kevin. I could easily have killed you."

Khalela holstered the weapon and inspected him. Kevin felt embarrassed
again, walking around in his underpants. "Looks like that leg is healing
faster than I thought. You should thank Abdul and-"

know it was you. Abdul told me all about the great doctoring job you did
with the stuff in the first-aid kits. Is that just another one of your
many talents?"

Khalela laughed. "Do you always ask so many questions?"

"Sometimes." Kevin walked closer, mesmerized by the natural beauty of
her face, so radiant and full of life. Her perfect teeth glistened in
the dark. Her lips appeared moist despite the desert's daily dryness.
Kevin wondered how she managed that. It didn't take but a day in the
desert for his face and lips to get sunburned, even with the sunscreen
and lip balm.

"Where are you from, Khalela?"

The smile quickly vanished from her face. "I thought we had decided to
leave that line of questioning for now."

"Sorry, I was just curious. You have an accent that I can't really
place. It's not Arab, it's-"

"Sorry. As they say in America, no deal."

"What can you tell me about yourseip" Kevin noticed she shifted her
weight back and forth, obviously uncomfortable with his questioning.

"What is it that you want to know?"

"Well, for one thing, what's your relationship with the guerrillas?"

She relaxed a bit after hearing the question. "I help them with their
problems."

"Are you the one who provided them with those Javelin missiles?"

She shook her head slowly. "You ask too many questions."

"Since I'm going to be under your protection, it's only fair to ask a
few questions about the people who are protecting me."

"As I said, you ask too many questions."

"Well, you don't belong to the Kurds and you claim you're not an
American, yet you speak fluent English and seem to be familiar with Migs
and American fighters. That could mean you're either with the military
or ... perhaps with some intelligence network. Which is it?"

"It is getting late."

"Can't blame me for trying. Let me ask you a question that you might be
able to answer. When do we leave?" He checked his watch. it was two in
the morning.

"At about five o'clock. You had better get some sleep. You will need
With that, she turned around and went back in. Kevin was in his bed in
seconds, once again wondering who Khalela was. He had noticed a slight
flicker in her eyes when he'd mentioned "intelligence network."

Was she CIA? Kevin shook his head. No, unless she had been lying to him
she was not American. Kevin remembered her when she'd told saying that
the Kurds were "our allies." Our allies? Kevin knew that in this part of
the world, the United States' true allies were few: the British, the
Germans, and sometimes the French and Israelis. Actually, Britain was
the only true ally. The French were too unpredictable and could turn
their backs on the United States at any time. The Germans were good at
providing large amounts of cash but no manpower. The Israelis  ...
Because of their proximity to Iraq, the Israelis had an active interest
in making sure Iraq remained on a leash. Besides that, the United States
stood pretty much alone. The other members of the coalition force
supported the United States out of necessity; the Saudis because they
wanted United States protection from Iraq. The Russians had too many
domestic problems to do more than offer moral support.

She had to be either British, French, or Israeli. No other origin made
sense. As far as intelligence networks went, the British Secret Service
and the Mossad ranked up there with the CIA and the KGB. French
intelligence was not significant enough to really matter. British or
Israeli? Mossad, maybe? he wondered.

Kevin slowly fell asleep.

Ishmael Barzani held a piece of bread in his hand. The unleavened barley
bread was made in large, thin, pliable discs that made it easy for to
scoop up the goat cheese from the wooden Ishmael to use as a spoon bowl
next to him. He sat by a ravine one hundred feet away. He had seen pilot
Dalton come o utside to relieve himself. He then watched Khalela talking
to him for a few minutes before both walking  back in. His eyes
gravitated to the three guards he had posted next to the half dozen
four-by-four vehicles parked behind the house. It was a quiet night.

fie focused his attention on the piece of bread covered with white goat
cheese and knew that it would be painful, but he had no choice. Once in
a while he did have to eat to continue fighting. Putting the small piece
of bread in his mouth, Ishmael bit into it slowly, testing the ground
before applying more pressure. Using his tongue, he pushed the piece of
bread toward his back teeth and closed his eyes as a piercing pain made
him shiver the moment he attempted to chew with the right side of his
mouth. He eased back on the pressure and the throbbing subsided. Another
bolt of pain caused him to inhale deeply as he tried chewing with his
left side. With the coppery taste of his own blood from his diseased
gums, Ishmael kept the piece of bread on his tongue and waited until it
became soggy from blood and saliva before swallowing it. He did the same
with a dozen more chunks of bread and goat cheese.

He finished and then stared at the stars. The distant stars, he thought
as he eased himself against a large rock and took a sip from a cup
filled with 'araq, which burned his gums but somehow felt good. "Araq
was the best way to stay warm in the cold desert nights, Ishmael
reflected as he wiped his thin mustache clean of the potent drink. He
remembered a period in his life when he didn't need to drink 'araq to
keep warm at night. Ishmael remembered his nights with Raniya, his young
wife.

A few tears slowly flowed from Ishmael's sunken eyes and made their way
down his tanned face as he remembered the first time he'd seen her in a
small village north of Halabjah. She had been getting water from the
well in the center of the village. Ishmael had just arrived with his
guerrilla group after two weeks of heavy fighting with the Iranians at
the border. His group had taken many casualties. Ishmael himself had a
bullet wound in his right forearm.

Ishmael drank more 'araq and rubbed a hand over the two-inch scar on his
arm. He remembered when the women by the well saw them and instantly ran
to them, then brought them to the local school, where the wounded were
tended. Raniya took care of Ishmael. She cleaned his wound and kept a
fresh bandage on it for the next few days. Ishmael learned that Raniya's
father was a Shiah, the town's spiritual leader, a man respected for his
religious learning. In a matter of days, Ishmael had fallen in love with
Raniya and decided to approach her father and ask for her hand. This he
did right away, only to find out from the Shiah that Raniya's hand was
already promised to her first cousin, a local tough, a shaqawah.
Although hated by most, as Raniya's first cousin the shaqawah
traditionally had the right to marry her. Ishmael's first thought had
been to take Raniya away with him, but he quickly discarded the idea. In
tribal custom, runaway marriages were not accepted and often led to
death. A broken-hearted Ishmael was pacing back and forth in the center
of the small village when he heard someone calling his name. He turned
around and to his surprise saw the shaqawah walking toward him with a
knife in his right hand. Ishmael could only guess he'd somehow heard
about his feelings toward Raniya. He had known a fight to the death
would take place. It was customary. It was the only way for the shaqawah
to protect his honor. It was the Kurdish way.

Ishmael leaned forward and took another sip as he recalled the short yet
bloody fight. The shaqawah was no match for Ishmael's skills, as he
quickly learned after attacking Ishmael with the knife. Ishmael easily
blocked it and kicked him in the rear, sending him flying into the
shallow pond next to the well. The shaqawah landed head first, then
bolted up and looked at Ishmael in surprise, obviously realizing his
mistake. He had already committed himself to fight to the death when he
knew he could not win. The shaqawah looked at Ishmael and then at all
the villagers. Raniya stood there next to her father. The options for
the shaqawah were clear: death or dishonor. He chose the former and
lunged. This time Ishmael pulled out his own knife, blocked the
shaqawah's amateurish attack, and sliced his throat. The following week
Ishmael had married the young Raniya, barely seventeen at the time.

Raniya ... Ishmael Barzani continued sipping 'araq and staring at the
stars. His gums burned. His teeth ached.

150 MILES Northwest OF RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA. Day Two. 2300 Local Time.

"You feeling all right, pal?" asked the officer sitting to the left of
Robert Bourdeaux in the back of the Beech C-12A, one of the many
military utility transport aircraft providing courier service to Allied
forces in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.

Bourdeaux didn't answer. His head had not reacted well to the change in
pressure after the plane had taken off fifteen minutes ago. Now, with
the aircraft experiencing some unexpected turbulence, Bourdeaux kept his
eyes closed and massaged his temples. His stomach was not handling the
choppy flight all that well, either, something that surprised Bourdeaux.
He seldom got nauseated. On the other hand, since his arrival in the
region he had fallen for the deadly combination of poor diet, lack of
sleep, and excessive stress that always messed up his body.

"Say, buddy, you okay?" asked the officer, a trace of concern in his
voice.

"I'll survive."

"You don't sound too convincin' to me."

Let's just say ... that I have felt better before, all right? My body
doesn't handle ... changes in pressure all that well."

"Whatever you say. Name's Lieutenant Colonel Richard Kramer, but my
friends call me Longhorn."

"Bourdeaux ... Robert Bourdeaux." He pressed both hands against his
stomach. His nausea slowly grew out of control. "Well, nice to meet you,
Bob-you go by Bob, right? ... oh, shit!

Grab one of 'em bags to your right if you feel like pukin'! No offense,
buddy, but I don't feel like smellin' your barf all the way to Riyadh."

Bourdeaux fumbled with the airsick bag, opened it, and stared into its
shiny plastic lining. Nothing, just a dry heave. He sat up, but kept the
open bag in his hands. Now his headache kicked into high gear. Jesus
Christ!

"Are you a pilot?" Bourdeaux forced himself to ask, trying to get his
mind off his head and stomach.

"Yep, but not tonight. My damned state-of-the-art jet had some problems
last night during an exercise and I had to make an emergency landing at
your base. Can't say I was too happy about that, but at least I made it
in one piece."

"Sorry to hear that, Colonel. So why are you going to Riyadh?"

"Just a quick trip to visit a buddy of mine. Gotta be back at the base
before sunrise, though. Mechanics are fixin' my bird at seven sharp and
I wanna be there." Kramer checked his watch. "Well, looks like twenty
more minutes to go before we get there."

"Great. I can't wait to step on solid ground."

"You're a landlubber, aren't ya?"

"Excuse me?"

"Ali, forget it."

"Say, Colonel?"

"Yeah?"

"Where were you stationed before this conflict?" Bourdeaux asked to try
to get his mind off his misery.

"With the 37th Tactical Fighter Wing at Tonopah, in Nevada, and before
that I served in Desert Storm."

Bourdeaux was impressed. "The 37th? That's near Nellis Air Force Base.
Isn't that where the Air Force keeps the stealth fighters?"

"You got it. And your lookin' at the cream of the stealth fighter pilots
in the whole damned Air Force. Too bad mine malfunctioned last night."

"How long have you been flying the F-117A?"

"Hmm ... for about five years. Flew one of the first ones that came off
the production line at Lockheed."

"Where are they keeping you guys and your fancy toys these days?"

"Same place we kept them during Desert Storm. The whole squadron-except
for my bird-is at Khamis Mushait air base, a place in the mountains of
southwestern Saudi, but no one's allowed in there unless they got a good
reason. Say, where are you from, partna?"

"Born and raised in D.C. I guess I shouldn't even ask where you're
from."

"Waco, Texas! Where else? The place where you can find the best damned
barbecue in the world. Once you try 'em ol' beef ribs there, you'll
never wanna eat barbecue anywhere else again."

That was the final straw. Bourdeaux could not control his stomach any
longer and, bending over, he vomited.

"Oh, shit! Sorry 'bout that! Guess silly me didn't think what I was
sayin'."

Bourdeaux didn't respond. He couldn't even if he wanted to. His body was
purging itself of all unwanted substances. He inhaled deeply several
times and finally managed to raise his head. "Damn!"

"Go easy on yourself. It happens to everybody for the first few times
until your stomach gets stronger."

With tears rolling down his face, and a pounding headache, Bourdeaux
felt a second convulsion coming and placed his mouth on the bag again.
Damnedjob! he thought as he stared at his own shoes.

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Two. 2320
Local Time.

Colonel Peter Halston remembered the music and the smell of fresh
flowers. He remembered Elaine's white dress, too. The small church was
packed. Her family on one side. His on the other. Halston saw his
friends in the rear signaling him to skip town while he still could. He
saw his mother crying with joy. But most of all, he remembered Elaine's
face. Remembered her eyes finding his through the veil. Her lips moving
softly as she spoke the vows she intended to keep for a lifetime  ...
however short. He was back by her side. Back in her life. Back in a
perfect world that slowly unraveled itself to the young couple and
showed the promise of a good life. Then something changed. The lights
inside the church dimmed. The people slowly left the pews and made a
line in the center of the church. One by one they approached him. The
smiles were gone. The flowers remained, but the music had changed. And
the people ... his mother, dressed in black, stood by his side. His
friends, somber looks painted across their faces, made their way up the
aisle to briefly and weakly shake his hand while mumbling something
Peter Halston could not understand. Then they were gone. All of them. He
was alone ... alone with the coffin, her coffin. He saw it being lowered
into the ground. Saw the single rose in his hands slowly falling on top
to soon be covered by the same dirt that drowned his love, his hope, his
life. Peter Halston fought against the memory, but he failed. He saw the
curve on the road; Spotted the oncoming truck's headlights. Felt the
steering wheel under his hands quiver the moment he drove onto the
shoulder to avoid the head-on collision. But the tree ... he
couldn'tavoid the tree. The sound of the impact rang in his ears long
after all motion ceased. Long after his safety belt cut into his chest
as it absorbed the same forward momentum that propelled Elaine through
the windshield, like a rocket, colliding against the wide trunk, and
bouncing back onto the hood. Her disfigured face crushed against the
windshield. Her dead eyes stared at him ... her eyes ... her eyes  ...
Peter Haiston sat up in bed and inhaled deeply. Jesus Christ. When will
this end? After six years, he could still remember it as if it had only
happened yesterday.

He shook his head and checked his watch. He knew it would take some time
before he could go back to sleep. His heartbeat was up and he felt
adrenaline knotting his stomach. He jumped out of his cot, put on a set
of clean fatigues, and walked outside his tent.

The base seemed unusually quiet. The fighters were all secured on the
ramp. He strolled down the tarmac and admired a Pave Hawk tied down near
the edge of the ramp. He gazed up and was rewarded by a crystalline
cosmos. Sitting down under the nose of the helicopter, Halston gazed
into the distance. At night in the desert, without a moon, it was
difficult to tell where the earth and sky met. The only reference point
was the imaginary line where the stars stopped. Other than that, the
desert looked like a huge black hole with no beginning and no end.

A black hole. "Sounds like the story of my life," he murmured.

"I didn't know you liked to talk to yourself, Pete."

Startled, Halston turned around, only to find a smiling Amanda Green
with her arms crossed, standing underneath the Pave Hawk's tail rotor.

"I guess you can't sleep either, huh?" she said, walking toward him.

"Nope."

"May I?"

Haiston patted the ground next to him with his right hand. She sat down
and hugged her knees.

"This is so peaceful," he said. "Pretty hard to believe that there's
been so much killing out there."

"I know, and the way it looks, there's probably gonna be more blood and
death if those Iraqis don't stop their senseless tactics," she said.

"For us it's death. For the people at home it's almost like watching a
G-rated movie. Ever since the start of Desert Storm, every time we
attack Iraq everything seems sanitized."

"You can thank CNN for that," she said, running a hand through her short
brown hair. "My father fought in Vietnam. He was a helicopter pilot,
too. After the war, he came home and used to spend hours at night simply
watching the stars, just like this. I used to sit out with him and he
would talk about what he saw over there. Funny. He hardly ever discussed
the war with anybody else, but he would talk very freely during those
nights. These wars, like Desert Storm and what is going on now, are very
different from the war he fought in, very detached from reality-at least
on our side. No big emphasis on body counts. No specifics. Everything
shown on TV's sanitized, cleaned. Makes you wonder."

"Anyone else in your family in the military besides you and your
father?"

She shook her head. "Nope. None of my four brothers liked the service.
My father was proud when he found out I decided to become a helicopter
pilot. I think he felt as if I was the only one following his
footsteps."

Halston smiled. He felt very comfortable in the company of Amanda Green.

"Does he still fly?"

"He lost his job as a commercial helicopter pilot after he failed to
pass the eye exam on his physical last year. His vision is tunneling,
and it can't be corrected. My mother and he live off his military
pension, which ain't much. I try to help them with what I can. My
brothers do the same."

"I didn't know that. I'm truly sorry. You and your father close?"

She inhaled deeply. "Yep. Very. I'm still his little girl."

"What about your mother?"

"We get along, but things were never the same after I joined up. Unlike
my father, she's kind of old-fashioned when it comes to women and their
role in society. She never worked a day in her life. With Dad I really
get along, though. I miss him."

"You get letters often?"

"Yes, but it's not the same. I miss him. I miss his voice. I guess that
comes with the job."

"You can call, you know."

"Yes, but it's too expensive. We can't afford it."

Halston's eyes inched toward her and studied the profile of her face: a
somewhat pointy nose, small lips, and small round chin framed by short
brown hair that just barely covered the back of her neck.

"You ever worry about what tomorrow might bring? After all, we might go
into another war with these people," he asked her.

"I'm doing what my father did in Vietnam: take it one day at a time."

Halston smiled and gazed into her brown eyes. She smiled back and
lowered her gaze after a few moments. "What are we doing?" she asked.

"Nothing yet," responded Halston. "But this could get complicated. I'm
your superior."

el "Yes, I know," she said.

"I'd hate to see this affect your career. You're a terrific pilot."

They remained quiet for several minutes before heading back to their
tents. Halston got in bed and stared at the canvas ceiling of his small
tent. As long as Amanda was under his command, a personal relationship
was inappropriate, but on the other hand, Elaine had left an immense
vacuum in him. To this day he still felt incomplete, alone, without a
true purpose. Yes, the Air Force gave him a sense of accomplishment that
no personal relationship could, but there was more to life than firing
Patriots and filling out forms. He wasn't a loner by nature. He needed
someone to share his life with. Colonel Peter Halston, U.S. Air Force,
realized that he needed the company of a woman in his life again, and
that woman could very well be Amanda Green. She fit right into his ideal
of what a woman should be-except she was under his command.

But did he really want to get close to someone here? With another war
maybe around the corner? Elaine's death had nearly crushed him. It had
taken him years to fully return to a normal life, and even then the
nightmares still haunted him. Could he really survive a second disaster
like that one in his life?

The bombardment of questions slowly faded away and Halston fell asleep.

THE WHITE HOUSE. Day Two. 1630 Local Time.

Sitting behind his desk, President Bill Clinton did not interrupt CIA
Director Craig Kettler as he related the latest analysis by Robert
Bourdeaux of the strange differences between the two dairy products
factories. Listening intently, the president understood why the director
had sent someone like Bourdeaux over there. The man had a sixth sense
when it came to intelligence work. Although it didn't take long for the
army of analysts at the NPIC to find an anomaly in the traffic to and
from the Allahbad complex, it took a man like Bourdeaux to add another
dimension of value to the satellite images by comparing Allahbad to
another dairy factory and trying to find explanations for the
differences.

Allahbad Chemical Complex. Was it for real? Or was Saddam playing games,
trying to make the Americans look in the wrong place while the Iraqi
leader maneuvered himself into an even stronger position? The Republican
Guard group was only forty-eight hours from reaching the border with
Kuwait and Saudi Arabia, and Clinton had already placed all Allied
forces in the region on full alert. All he had to do was give the order
and his bombers would smoke the advancing Iraqis in a few hours. But he
couldn't. Not yet.

Kettler finished his pitch by stating that Bourdeaux had requested a
meeting in Riyadh with General Marshall.

Clinton nodded. "I like that. Be sure that Draper attends this meeting.
Afterward, I want to have a conference call with both Draper and
Marshall."

"Yes, Mr. President."


For the first time in days, President Clinton saw a ray of hope, at
least as far as the complex was concerned. He still felt troubled about
the fate of the two pilots missing in action. He silently prayed for
their well-being.

COMMANDERS A president's hardest task is not to do what is right but to
know what is right.

-Lyndon B. Johnson

U.S. CENTRAL COMMAND AIR Forces (CENTAF), RIYADH. Day Three. 0 1 1 5
Local Time.

Robert Bourdeaux was growing tired of the murky interior of the
rectangular room where he had been ushered after arriving at CENTAF,
nicknamed the Black Hole. After walking down a flight of stairs to the
cellar installation, where General Roy Marshall and his staff controlled
the skies over the region, Bourdeaux quickly understood the reason for
the nickname. The place was gloomy and depressing. It seemed hard to
believe that from this place the Allies' supreme air commander conducted
all the briefings and meetings required to issue Air Tasking Orders.

Although his stomach problems had faded away the moment they landed in
Riyadh, the pounding headache had not left. Bourdeaux sat impatiently,
not only because he had been ignored for the past two hours since his
arrival there, but also because the three extra-strength Tylenols he had
taken twenty minutes ago refused to kick in.

Aside from the cork board, where Bourdeaux had already pinned a few KHII
photos, along with the map he'd gotten from the Kurd Ishmael, the only
other furniture in the room was an old metallic table and three folding
chairs on each side. A tripod stood at one end of the table. A brown
door was at the other.

The door swung open. Bourdeaux stood up, but slowly exhaled when he
recognized the same captain who had shown him to the room an hour
before.

"Well?" Bourdeaux said, his voice beginning to show an edge. "I thought
my people arranged this."

"They did, Mr. Bourdeaux," responded the captain, a short and somewhat
plump, middle-aged man with a shiny forehead and a pointy nose. "The
general has been tied up in meetings, but he'll be with you shortly,
along with some members of his staff. So that you know, sir, it's been a
very long day for the general, and he's tired and cranky. Get right down
to your business as quickly as possible, and be brief and to the point.
The general will appreciate that."

"Thanks for the tip."

The captain left the room.

Ten minutes later, the door swung open again. Bourdeaux, sitting on the
edge of the table by the tripod, watched four men in desert fatigues
enter the room. He recognized General Marshall from newspaper pictures
and from watching CNN. He was the only three-star general in the group.
The other three sported only one star. Marshall grabbed a chair from the
right side of the table and moved it to the head. With his back against
the door, the general slowly sat down while measuring Bourdeaux with his
stare.

What impressed Bourdeaux the most was Marshall's penetrating gaze.
Wearing a standard military crew cut, Marshall was a man of dark
complexion, dark brown eyes, and black hair. A receding hairline gave
him a square wall of forehead underlined with thin eyebrows drooping at
the ends. A prominent nose hung over a pair of wiry lips blending into a
strong chin, which gave him a kind of rugged geniality. The general's
been around the block plenty of times, decided Bourdeaux. His face
definitely showed it. Marshall was all business.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Bourdeaux said.

"Good evening, Mr. Bourdeaux," Marshall responded with a slight nod. The
members of his staff remained quiet. "These are Generals Tom Kleiner and
Hutch Potter. They are two of my top advisors. With me is also General
Kenneth Draper, the undersecretary for Middle Eastern Affairs.
Gentlemen, the director of the CIA called me two hours ago requesting
that I meet with Mr. Bourdeaux in regards to critical information on the
development of nuclear weapons inside Iraq."

Kleiner and Potter sat to Marshall's right, Draper to his left. Aside
from Marshall, the only other person in the room Bourdeaux recognized
was Draper, a silver-haired opportunist. General Kenneth J. Draper had'
pretty strong ties not only within the Clinton administration and the
upper ranks of the U.S. Armed Forces, but also within the intelligence
community in general. He came from a very wealthy family in Washington,
D.C., and he knew a lot of high-ranking politicians. The rumor around
Langley was that Draper had quickly moved up the ladder by making
allegiances of convenience with certain factions of the Armed Forces and
Congress, which included helping politicians with timely and substantial
campaign contributions. Draper would quickly switch sides when the
opportunity for a promotion presented itself. The Silver Rat, as Draper
was commonly known among some circles in the intelligence community,
would not hesitate to ruin anyone's career if the action helped augment
his own. Draper was always considered a politician wearing a uniform,
and oddly enough, he finally became one when President Clinton named him
undersecretary. As a matter of fact, there were those at Langley who
believed the only m reason Draper went into the military was to use the
service as a launchpad for his political career. For all those reasons,
Bourdeaux was not all that surprised to see Draper sitting here.
Fortunately for Bourdeaux, Draper did not know him, which gave Bourdeaux
an edge.

Praying that the Tylenols would soon come into play, Bourdeaux began.
"Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen, and thanks for meeting me here on such
short notice. I'll be brief and to the point." Bourdeaux walked up to
the cork board. "Gentlemen, I'm a senior CIA officer currently posted
with the 47th Tactical Fighter Wing at Salman Asad. Part of my job's to
gather intelligence from agents I've recruited inside Iraq. I'm also
chartered with the task of organizing and analyzing the data I get,
reviewing satellite imagery collected by the National Photographic
Interpretation Center, and generating recommendations and options for
probable courses of action based on my interpretation of that data. At
exactly nine hundred hours local time yesterday, I met with a group of
Kurdish guerrillas, who, in the process of raiding an Iraqi command
post, came across this map ..." Bourdeaux continued with his speech for
ten more minutes, covering everything Halston and he had gathered from
the map, documents, and satellite photos, including the discrepancies
between the two milk factories. The moment he finished, General Draper
raised his hand.

"Yes, General?" Bourdeaux asked him.

"Mr. Bourdeaux, your data appears to be solid. The director of Central
Intelligence and the president himself also appear to share that
opinion. You seem to have covered all the angles."

Bourdeaux pushed his bottom lip forward a bit, studying Draper while the
hammering inside his head intensified. What in the heck's wrong with
those Tylenols? Bourdeaux could sense that Draper was about to start one
of his classic maneuvers to make himself look good in front of Marshall
while stomping on Bourdeaux. He decided to play it cool. "Thank you, Mr.
Undersecretary."

"I'd rather you address me as General Draper, Mr. Bourdeaux. I believe
I've earned that rank."

Right. "Of, course, General.

"Like I just said, Mr. Bourdeaux," Draper repeated, waving a hand up in
the air, "you appeared to have covered all the angles ... except for
one."

Bourdeaux waited a few seconds while Draper regarded him. Before
Bourdeaux could say anything, Marshall opened his arms, palms facing up.

"General Draper? You mind telling us what it is that Mr. Bourdeaux's
missed?"

Draper grinned at Bourdeaux. "The president's making a lot of decisions
based on the information that you have gathered, Mr. Bourdeaux. Do you
feel comfortable with the data the Kurds gave to you? Have you
cross-checked it with other sources?"

"Give him more credit. These CIA guys always have multiple sources. I'm
sure that he's already cross-checked it," interjected Marshall. "Isn't
that right, Mr. Bourdeaux?"

The headache was out of control. Bourdeaux forced himself to ignore it.
Marshall's eyes, as well as everyone else's, were on him. They waited
for a response. How could he answer? No, General, we didn't exactly
confirm it with other sources, because guess what? Saddam has already
killed most of my other agents inside Iraq, but I've got one helluva
hunch that this is for real Bourdeaux knew that such response would have
him removed from his current post and returned to Langley, where his
days would most likely be numbered for embarrassing the Agency in front
of someone of the caliber and authority of General Roy Marshall. Draper
was playing with him, checking the tightness of his story. Nevertheless,
Bourdeaux was not about to let Draper-liked by President Clinton or
not-take him down the drain. He defiantly stared back at Draper, cleared
his throat, and began.

"We have cross-checked this information in several ways, gentlemen,"
Bourdeaux started, struggling to formulate an answer good enough to shut
Draper up. "First, let me start with a known fact, and that's the strong
relationship that I have developed with the Kurdish guerrillas since-"

"Ahem ... Mr. Bourdeaux," said Draper in a soft voice. "Isn't there a
chance they are double agents? Iraqi soldiers dressed as Kurds, maybe?"

"Let him finish," Marshall said, before Bourdeaux got a chance to
respond. @

"Yes sir." Draper pressed his lips together and leaned back against the
metallic chair.

Bourdeaux ignored Draper's stare and forced himself to appear relaxed.!

"Like I was saying, gentlemen, in the past, the relationship that I have
developed with the Kurds has provided me-and in turn YOU-with accurate
strategic information on numbers of tanks, aircraft, and troop
deployments, all confirmed through satellite passes. We have no reason
to believe that this new information's any different in accuracy from
previous data.

"In addition, we have confirmed an increased level of activity at
Allahbad, where I believe the Iraqis are engaged in something more
important than just processing milk. Given the tight security of the
complex, the electric fence, the shelters I believe to be camouflaged
antiaircraft installations, and the drastic differences between Allahbad
and the other milk factory near Baghdad, I fear that we might be looking
at the place where the rockets are being assembled. I admit that it is a
somewhat reaching statement, but given all the data, at this point my
recommendation's that we don't take any chances. I propose a nighttime
stealth recon mission to get a closer look. If the recon flight confirms
my suspicions, I would like to recommend an air strike on the complex."

"Incredible," said Draper, getting up and walking to the cork board. His
face was a few inches from the photos. After a few moments, Draper
turned to Marshall. "This is a civilian facility, general. It makes baby
formula, not weapons, or electricity, or ... anything else that can
substantially help the Iraqi military. An attack on this plant could
give the Iraqis ammunition for a propaganda war. For all we know, the
Iraqi government probably has the place packed with civilians. They're
probably praying we attack it so that they can show the world the United
States is not interested in restoring peace in the region, but in the
destruction of the people of Iraq. I'm sorry, sir. I strongly disagree
with Mr. Bourdeaux."

Marshall nodded, got up, and walked to the cork board. Bourdeaux and
Draper stepped aside. Marshall remained there for a few moments, hands
behind his back, chin up, eyes inspecting the satellite photos.
Bourdeaux knew he was pondering, thinking, playing out different
scenarios in that brilliant mind of his.

"I see your point, Mr. Bourdeaux. The difference between the two
factories is indeed significant," Marshall said as he turned around and
faced his selected staff. "Any of you have any more questions for Mr.
Bourdeaux?" He waited but got no response. "All right, then. Mr.
Bourdeaux?"

"Yes, General?"

"Damned good briefing! I need you to get back over there right away.
We'll get on the horn with the president and will let you know of our
decision soon. In the meantime, keep on collecting as much information
about that factory as you can. We might have more questions for you by
the time you get back. Thank you for your help."

"Thank you for your time, General Marshall, gentlemen." With that,
Bourdeaux placed the map and satellite photos back in his briefcase and
left the room.

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Three. 0900
Local Time.

The pilot's door sprang open, revealing the cramped interior of the
Apache gunship. After completing the preflight inspection of the
exterior of the helicopter, Captain Orlando Delaney crawled inside,
pulled the door down and locked it. He saw his copilot/gunner,
Lieutenant Steve Rizzo approach the craft from the left-hand side, where
the gunner's door was situated. Rizzo nodded and crawled up the built-in
steps near the nose. He turned and pulled on the door handle, crawled
in, and settled himself directly in front and slightly below Delaney's
seat. He also closed his door.

Delaney reached for the left control console and flipped the electrical
power switch to battery mode. The avionics quickly powered up. He fixed
his gaze on the vertical scale instruments in front and to the right on
the main console. There were two fuel gauges: one for each of the
crash-resistant fuel cells located in the fuselage. Each cell was
capable of holding a maximum of one hundred seventy gallons, or one
thousand pounds of fuel. He followed the needles up to the top of the
scale. He adjusted the throttle settings on the side-by-side throttle
controls below the electrical power switch. Satisfied, he finished the
preflight checklist and pushed down the square red button next to the
dual throttle controls. The main rotor began to turn in response to the
125horsepower engine starter located on the right engine nacelle in the
aft equipment bay. The dual General Electric turbines kicked into life.
Delaney watched the rotor RPM increase in response to his throttle
controls.

All the information he immediately needed was shown in the video display
unit, a seven-inch-square CRT display located directly in front of him
at eye level. The display was surrounded by backup analog
instrumentation. His Apache was ready for business.

Delaney smiled. He loved his job, and he loved the Army, where a soldier
was a soldier, where promotions were tied to one's merit and not to the
color of one's skin.

As a black growing up in Willoma, Mississippi, a town somewhere between
Jackson, the capital, and Memphis, Tennessee, the skinny Delaney had
seen enough rednecks and had been called nigger more times than he had
hairs on his head. Delaney hated rednecks with an overwhelming passion.
He despised them for what they said and what they stood for. Delaney and
his three brothers had always been harassed at the racially integrated
high school in downtown Willoma. For his parents, the fact all four of
their boys were attending a high school that only a few years before had
been kept strictly white was an honor. Their kids had a shot at getting
a decent education. For the Delaney boys, it naci been nothing but
living hell for the first year: from finding ropes and white sheets
inside their lockers, to constant threats and harassment by the
rednecks, to the dangerous encounter with white-robed Klansmen one
summer night long ago, when a half dozen hooded racists surprised a
nineteen-year-old Delaney while he was celebrating with his girlfriend
in his father's truck off a side road a mile outside Willoma. Delaney
had just been accepted to attend college in Florida, courtesy of the
Army ROTC program. To this day, Delaney could vividly recall the way his
girlfriend's face had been instantly painted with terror. Her flared
nostrils, wide-open eyes, and quivering lips showed that she was well
aware of the fate black women faced if caught in the middle of the night
by the Klan. The thought of a brutal gang rape followed by a hanging
sent her into panic. With the hooded men banging on his truck's locked
doors, Delaney pulled out the Smith & Wesson .38 Special his father
always kept in the glove compartment and prayed that he didn't have to
use it. The men began to throw rocks at the vehicle, cracking the
windshield and side windows. A rock blasted through the driver's side
window with a loud bang, and Delaney was bathed in broken glass. Another
rock struck him in the shoulder. A hand reached in to unlock the door.
He knew what would happen next. With the curses from the Klansmen mixed
with his girlfriend's hair-curling shrieks, Orlando Delaney cocked the
.38 Special and fired twice. One man fell back holding his chest. The
others ran away as the police arrived and arrested the young Delaney for
murder. Two months later, he was acquitted for reasons of self-defense
in one of the most controversial cases in Mississippi. But Delaney,
fully aware that in Willoma whites dispensed justice for blacks by two
different avenues, left town the same day he was acquitted. He knew
there had to be a better life waiting for him outside Mississippi.
Orlando Delaney found it in the Army.

Captain Amanda Green, sitting in the copilot's seat of an HH-60G Pave
Hawk helicopter, twisted the motorcycle-style, front-end grip of the
collective lever by an extra half turn, increasing rotor RPM to
eighty-five percent maximum power to compensate for the hot, thin air
lifting off the already sizzling runway. When she had achieved the
desired rotation, she pulled up the front end of the hinged collective
with her left hand and gently applied forward pressure to the cyclic
with her right. The Pave Hawk helicopter responded by gently lifting off
the soft tarmac. Amanda applied additional right rudder to compensate
for the rotor torque-induced rotation on the fuselage.

The Pave Hawk remained in a perfect hover five feet from the ground as
Amanda waited for the second Pave Hawk rescue helicopter and for Captain
Orlando Delaney's Apache to leave the ground. An F-15C from the 5 8th
Tactical Fighter Squadron had picked up a beacon -.ML, on Guard several
miles north of the spot where the F- 1 4 had gone down the day before.
Although no two-way radio contact had been made with the downed pilot,
the beacon had been enough for Halston to activate a second CSAR effort.

Captain Orlando Delaney joined the first Pave Hawk in a hover while
waiting for the second one to reach take-off RPM.

"Navigation systems check," confirmed Rizzo, sitting in front of and
below Delaney in the dual cockpit.

"Weapons check?"

"Weapons ready."

"All right. Tango Seven Niner and Tango Six Five, Dragonfly Niner Two."

"Niner Two, Tango Six. Airborne and turning to zero one zero.

In Tango Six Five, Amanda Green watched the second Pave Hawk take off
and head north after the Apache. She applied additional forward pressure
on the cyclic and the heavy craft responded by accelerating to 100
knots, keeping her craft below twenty feet, as briefed.

"Keep your eyes open," the Pave Hawk's pilot, Major Steve Poole, told
her over the intercom as the three-craft caravan closely followed the
flat terrain, leaving behind a cloud of sand.

"Roger."

"ETA?" asked Poole.

"Thirty minutes."

She smiled, grateful that Poole was letting her fly the helo. Keeping it
less than fifty feet away from the other rescue chopper was almost
second nature to her, especially when flying the Pave Hawk, a craft she
had learned to appreciate after training for many years on the older and
lighter Bell Model 212. She particularly liked the way the craft, as
large as it was, responded to her commands. She understood why the
engineers at Sikorsky were so proud of the Pave Hawk. The 15,000pound
craft was a long ways from the smaller Bell she had trained on a decade
ago. To this day, Amanda still vividly remembered her first helicopter
flying lesson. It had happened a few weeks after she had earned her
private pilot's license in a single-engine airplane. The first thing
-her instructor had told her was to forget everything she had learned
about flying airplanes. The helicopter is an entirely different animal,
;he recalled him saying. She also remembered how stubbornly she had
refused to accept the change at first, finally giving in after a few
failed lessons when she had repeatedly lost control of the rotorcraft
and would have crashed had it not been for the instructor and the dual
controls of the small trainer. Now she was in total control, no
instructor to save her from disaster, no passing or failing grade, just
survival or death. Amanda felt the adrenaline rush knotting her stomach
as the possibility of combat neared. This is what she had wished for,
and here it finally was. The real thing.

As the caravan crossed into Iraq, Amanda prayed to do it right.

"Dragonfly Niner Two, Cougar, " Delaney heard the voice from the AWACS
crew.

"Cougar, Niner Two, " responded Delaney.

"Bogey. Onefive zero at two zero miles. One thirty knots.

"Niner Two." Delaney didn't like this. A single unidentified craft,
probably a propeller plane or maybe a helicopter, had been picked up by
the AWACS near the same area where they were headed. Delaney frowned. He
did not believe in coincidences, and the fact that an enemy craft was
heading in the same direction bothered him. "Keep your eyes open," he
told his gunner over the intercom.

"Yes, sir."

The young Iraqi pilot sitting behind the gunner in the dual cockpit of
the Soviet-made Hind-D combat helicopter swung the cyclic forward and
left, throwing the 24,000-pound craft into a steep diving turn. When his
altimeter shot past one thousand feet, he gently applied rear pressure
and adjusted rudder and throttle, keeping his craft leveled off at a
comfortable 140 knots. The small village was directly below, exactly
where Colonel Manesh had told him it would be, standing peacefully next
to a wide stream. There were hundreds of these villages around the
country. What made this one special was its proximity-only three miles
away-to the'place where the two search and rescue helicopters had been
destroyed.

The village consisted of several brick and stone houses along with a few
tents, and a water well that fed a large circular pond in the clearing
in the middle of the village.

The Hind circled the village near treetop level and finally landed in
the large clearing next to the water well. As soon as the gear touched
the ground, eight soldiers bolted out of the craft, carrying a
diesel-powered generator and a roll of thick cable. The last man out
gave a clear signal to the pilot, who increased throttle, lifted the
collective, and applied forward cyclic pressure. The Hind climbed enough
to clear the rooftops and hid safely in between two stone houses.

"Dragonfly Niner Two, Cougar. Bogey's gone. "Cougar, Niner Two. Gone?"
asked Delaney. "Affirmative. Disappeared from radar. Exercise extreme
caution.

"Niner Two."

Delaney sighed, aware of what that meant. The helicopter had probably
landed somewhere and was hiding, or maybe it was flying low.

"Captain, I just picked up a beacon on Guard," he heard Rizzo say.

Delaney switched frequencies to Guard and tried to communicate with the
Tomcat's pilot. "This is Dragonfly Niner Two."

No response.

"This is Dragonfly Niner Two, over."

Nothing.

Amanda kept watch and listened to Delaney on Guard while Poole flew. She
did not like the smell of their situation. There was the possibility
that the crew, in order to save batteries, didn't have their radio
switched to Talk, which was standard procedure until they got a visual
on the CSAR team. On the other hand, that radio could be in the hands of
Iraqis waiting to ambush another American rescue helicopter. The
disappearing blip certainly told her the latter possibility was more
realistic than the first. She would have objected, about continuing had
it not been for the CIA satellite coverage of the destruction of two
Iraqi helicopters and the subsequent rescue of one of the downed pilots
by what the man from the CIA had claimed to be Kurdish guerrillas. Even
then, she still didn't like her situation. Not knowing the exact
location of the enemy was worse than having to face them head-on. At
least that way things are even, she reflected. Both sides have equal
time to react. But when the enemy is hiding, all bets are off.

"Tangos, Dragonfly Niner Two.

"Come in, Niner Two," responded Amanda.

"Pos@ible bandit helo hiding on the ground ten miles away. Do a
three-sixty and remain behind me.

"Rog. , Amanda watched Poole lower the collective and drop the craft by
another ten feet; thin branches grazed the landing gear. She could see
the second Pave Hawk's light brown underside four hundred feet in front
of them.

The distinctive sound of helicopter rotors could be heard in the
distance as Ishmael Barzani reached the top of the hill overlooking the
small village where they usually stopped to eat and sleep. Most of the
villagers were Kurdish sympathizers and had always been generous and
supportive of Ishmael's holy crusade. The helicopter, which he
recognized as the kind used to drop gas on villages, had landed in a
clearing between two houses. Through his field binoculars, Ishmael could
see the craft's rotor still moving fast.

"See anything, Isha?" asked Abdul as he reached the edge.

"Just the helicopter we heard a few minutes ago. See it?" Ishmael
pointed to a spot about five hundred feet away.

"Yes, I see it."

"What is that helicopter doing there?" asked Khalela as she too reached
the top and positioned herself on the other side of Ishmael.

"Causing pain to our people," Ishmael responded in a sad tone.

"Our spotter in the village just reported three helicopters approaching,
sir," said the Hind's gunner.

The Iraqi pilot increased throttle to remove most of the weight from the
landing gear, but not enough to take off, although he could do it at a
moment's notice.

The pilot applied right rudder and the craft responded by rotating and
facing that direction. Then, moving the cyclic aft and "Increasing
collective by a dash, he managed to lift the nose-wheel off the ground
while still keeping the rear wheels on the and soil. "Cannon status?"

"Cannon enabled."

Captain Amanda Green spotted the small village straight ahead at twelve
o'clock. Poole continued at treetop level behind and slightly below the
second Pave Hawk, following the Apache in front. Throwing the cyclic
forward as he darted past a small hill overlooking the village, Poole
managed to remain close to the rolling hill as it smoothly leveled off
at the bottom.

Dust swirled up as the craft reached a dry patch of grass a few thousand
feet before the village.

"See anything?" Poole asked, warily scanning the sides of the valley. It
was deserted.

"No. Whatever it was is gone," she responded.

Orlando Delaney surveyed the surroundings while the rustic stone houses
by the edge of the village accelerated toward them. He was prepared to
add throttle and increase collective aft pressure to clear the red roofs
when he saw something up ahead and to his left. He wasn't exactly sure
what it was at first. A reflection? A metallic object reflecting the
sun's earl light? Could it be the y Highly polished instincts took over
when several muzzle flashes confirmed his suspicion. Delaney applied
full throttle and pulled back the cyclic, struggling to get out of range
of the guns before crossing in front of the large helicopter hiding
between two houses. The Pave Hawk directly behind him was not so lucky.
Flying right behind him, the large rescue craft-lacking the
maneuverability of the Apache-could not break away before the
four-barrel cannon of what Delaney had now confirmed as a Hind-D gunship
helicopter unleashed a shower of rounds across the underside of the
rescue craft. A trail of black debris marked the path of destruction
along the Pave Hawk's fuselage. The rescue craft went out of control,
vibrating as bullets struck the carefully balanced turboshaft.

"Engine failure! Seven Niner going down!"

While Poole got their Pave Hawk out of range of the guns, Amanda watched
in horror as bullets ripped across the fuselage of the other rescue
chopper. She couldn't do anything for them. The helicopter had taken a
direct hit at short range. The Pave Hawk went into an autorotation after
turbine failure. Amanda watched as the pilot fought to get the wounded
craft-still taking hits and now streaming smokeclear of any houses
before attempting a crash landing, which he nearly made, had it not been
for what Amanda knew had to be a round hitting a fuel cell.

Delaney saw the Pave Hawk explode in a ball of orange flames that
briefly reached up into the sky. From behind the smoke, he watched the
Hind-D take off and circle around and behind his craft as he tried to
bank left, out of the way.

"He's trying to get behind us!" shouted Lieutenant Steve Rizzo.

"Tango Six get out of here!"

"Six Five!"

"Infrared suppresser activated!"

"Cougar, Dragonfly Niner Two. We're engaged with a Hind!"

"Niner Two, Cougar. Say status."

"Niner Six destroyed. Have a Hind on my tail!"

"A flight of F- ]6s will be there in five minutes, over."

Rog. Five minutes!"

Thanking' "Allah for giving him his first kill, the young Iraqi pilot
activated the infrared seeker of the SA-7 Grail missile stored under the
left stub-wing-a jury-rigged attempt to give the Hind-D air-to-air
combat capability by using the popular shoulder-launched missile. The
pilot activated the optical sighting system built into his helmet and
trained it on the Apache. The missile's infrared tracking device went
into operation, trying to lock onto the American helicopter's dual
exhausts, but nothing happened; the seeker didn't respond, the missile
lock indicator didn't light. Puzzled, he switched to guns, applied full
throttle, and pushed the cyclic forward, rushing after the zigzagging
enemy craft.

Orlando Delaney swung the cyclic in every direction. The craft trembled
under the powerful thrust of two turboshafts fitted with an'infrared
suppresser system that broke up the hot gas plume from the engine's
exhausts and reduced its temperature below the lock-on threshold of
infrared detection systems. In seconds he reached the opposite hill and
shot up, while fighting the hammering g's, trying to reach the top
before the Hind got a firing angle.

With his right hand gripping the cyclic and index finger fixed around
the firing button, Delaney jammed the right rudder pedal against the
armored floor. The Apache's tail swung 180 degrees. He faced the
incoming Hind.

The young Iraqi pilot was caught with his finger off the trigger when
the American craft suddenly pivoted in midair and the cannon mounted in
the turret below the nose came alive. He instinctively raised the
collective, applied full throttle, and flung the cyclic left, missing
the river of 30mm shells that barely grazed his heavily armored
underside.

"Niner Two, Cougar. Three bogeys. Three three five at fifteen miles. One
hundredfifty knots, " the AWACS warned.

"Niner Two," responded Delaney. Now there were three more enemy craft
approaching. He frowned. He had almost gotten the Hind but had missed
the shot. Hastily, he now descended on the opposite side of the hill.
The Hind was out of sight. He went around the hill and reappeared on the
other side, expecting to see the Iraqi chopper, but it wasn't there.

"I don't know about you, Captain, but the shit's just about to hit the
fan, and with four against one, we are the shit. Those F-16s are still
four minutes away. Suggest we get the hell out of here while we can.

Rizzo was right; it was not going to be an even match. It would be more
like suicide to try and take on four craft alone. There was no other way
but to leave ... defeated.

Still angry for having missed his one shot and failing to achieve
retribution for either of the Pave Hawks-yesterday's and today's.Captain
Orlando Delaney turned the Apache around and sped away after the
surviving rescue helo. As the trail of smoke from the fallen -rescue
helicopter disappeared in the distance, Delaney, convinced he had not
done his job well, silently apologized to the Pave Hawk's six dead crew
members.

"Sweet Jesus!" exclaimed Lieutenant Kevin Dalton. The Apache grazed
,',over their'heads while they hid under sparse clusters of trees to
avoid detection during the dogfight-a precaution Khalela had insisted on
taking. "That was one of ours! And so was the one that went down."

"They were probably looking for you, Kevin."

"I know ... dammit!" Guilt overwhelmed him as he quietly watched the
smoke swirling up from the destroyed craft.

He felt Khalela's hand on his shoulder. "It was not your fault, you
know."

Kevin didn't respond. He couldn't help but feel responsible, and
reaching down for the PRC-90 strapped to his soiled gear vest, he
switched it off.

"What did you do that for?" asked Khalela. Her long hair was pulled back
and tied in a short bun. The change made her high cheekbones more
pronounced.

"I should have never turned it back on. I'll either make it out of here
on my own or I'll die trying. I won't have half the Allied forces
looking for me simply because I couldn't control myself and got shot
down. It's my mistake; I'll accept the consequences."

The Hind was soon joined by three others, deploying a total of nearly
thirty soldiers in the village. Using binoculars Abdul had given him,
Kevin was able to see the soldiers throwing large camouflage canopies
over the helicopters to hide them from coalition fighters, before
spreading around the small village in groups of two or three. Several
approached houses, peeping through the windows and then going around and
kicking in doors.

Kevin closed his eyes when he heard female screams soon after the
soldiers went inside. He looked at Khalela. "We can't let those
bastards-"

"This is nothing new, pilot Dalton," interrupted Ishmael Barzani,
staring into Kevin's eyes with his penetrating gaze. "The raping and
looting of our villages has been going on for years. The pain ... we
must endure the pain, for the end is near, Allah's kingdom will be true
for all those who are suffering in that village right now."

"Do you know those villagers?" asked Kevin, mesmerized by Ishmael's
response.

"I grew up in these regions. I know a great deal of people. Sometimes I
think that is my curse. Hardly a day goes by that Allah does not take
awaya friend."

"It's just not fair," responded Kevin. "Those soldiers down there must
be dealt with!"

Ishmael grinned, showing his rotten teeth and blackened gums to Kevin.
"Oh, you do not really think we are going to let them get away with such
brutality, do you?" He looked at Abdul and mumbled something.

Abdul rubbed the back of his thumb across his neck and smiled. "Qatala,
" he said simply, and pointed toward the helicopters.

Kevin nodded. He didn't understand the exact meaning of the word Abdul
had just said, but he knew the meaning of the Kurd's body language. He
gazed into his new friend's eyes and saw in them deep, uncompromising
resolve.

Ishmael led the single-file formation of rebels down the winding path
that descended lazily toward the left side of the valley. Khalela was
right behind him, closely followed by Abdul, who had one arm around
Kevin's back. The two walked side by side. Kevin felt the throbbing in
his leg return as he applied pressure on it, and he was grateful that
Abdul supported part of his weight, making the pain somewhat bearable.
The bandage that Khalela had given him, although moist from
perspiration, still held firmly in place. Kevin glanced down at it.
Khalela had cut off that leg of his flight suit at the knee, exposing
his skinned knee to the hot sun. Kevin thought it might be better that
way, since his other knee-also skinned-kept sticking to the inside of
his flight suit every time he stopped moving for too long. That only
added to his list of problems. His back and hips felt as if someone had
hammered them against each other. In reality, that was exactly what had
happened during his ejection.

Slowly moving along ravines on the side of the hill to avoid being
spotted, the group reached the flat land of the valley, where Ishmael
stopped and brought his right hand up in a fist.

Kevin looked behind him and watched how the battle-hardened guerrillas
spread out to the sides and easily blended with the surroundings. Kevin
and Abdul remained several feet behind Khalela and Ishmael.

Through his binoculars, Kevin spotted four soldiers drinking water from
the stream that separated the village from him. Kevin noticed that they
did not carry automatic weapons, and their fatigues looked more like ...
flight suits? The Iraqis remained there for several moments before
walking back to two Hinds parked several feet behind them. The
camouflaged canopies hung from the stationary rotors.

Kevin put down the binoculars and smiled.

"Those four out there are pilots," he whispered in a voice loud enough
for Khalela and Ishmael to turn their heads.

"That's what I think, too," responded Khalela, following it up with a
few Arabic sentences.

Ishmael pointed to his left and then moved his hand toward the village.
He signaled to his men on his right in the same way. Instantly, Kevin
watched the guerrillas crawl on their bellies and start moving toward
the slow-flowing waters of the stream.

"Shouldn't we wait for nightfall? Those guys might spot them."

Khalela turned around and smiled. "Good observation, but not for desert
warfare."

"Uh?"

"See the suns"

"Yeah, it's behind-"

"That's right. With the sun behind us, the glare reflecting off the sand
will make anybody in the village look the other way."

"I see." Kevin watched the Kurds stalk. The rebels covered the distance
in a few minutes, then one by one they swam across the water, holding
their weapons over their heads, and quickly dropped back to ground when
they reached the opposite shore.

Kevin rotated the adjusting wheel in between the binocular lenses and
focused on the young face of one of the pilots casually standing in
front of a helicopter. The others were out of sight on the other side of
the Hind, probably seeking refuge from the already scorching beams of
the late-morning sun. The young pilot had his eyes closed and face
lifted, as if enjoying the warmth.

Kevin's pulse went up, and he felt his stomach knotting when he spotted
a Kurd on the far right, slowly crawling toward the pilot. His approach
was a calculated one, noted Kevin, as he watched the guerrilla move
forward slowly on his knees and elbows, the AK-47 tightly held in front.
Kevin grimaced, imagining how painful it must be to crawl over the hot
sand. The Kurd stopped and tilted his head in every direction, then
moved forward once again. Slowly, foot after agonizing foot, the
guerrilla made it to just behind the tail rotor of the Hind.

Kevin stopped breathing when the Kurd, after carefully glancing at the
other side of the Hind, raised to a crouch, slung the Kalashnikov across
his back and pulled a blade out of his boot. With only a few feet
separating them, the Kurd recoiled and lunged. The soldier turned his
head as the knife cut him across the throat.

Wondering how the Kurd had managed to kill and drag the body away
without making enough noise for the other soldiers to hear him, Kevin
watched in utter astonishment as three other Kurds emerged from behind
the Hinds, each dragging his own victim.

"How in the hell ... ?" he began to say, lowering the binoculars.

Ishmael looked at him and grinned, showing his rotten teeth again. "We
are "Allah's warriors, pilot Dalton. He watches over us."

. Kevin looked at Khalela, who simply raised her left eyebrow and
pressed her binoculars against her eyes. Kevin did the same and spotted
a signal from one of the four Kurds below them.

Ishmael moved forward. They followed him.

Kevin, still being helped by Abdul, motioned Khalela to come closer.
"Are they really going to take on all those armed soldiers?"

She drew her lips into a tight smile. "You have not seen anything yet.
We are on the-"

Kevin snapped his head toward the village at the horrifying shriek of a
man. So did everyone else. Kevin felt a cold chill propagating up his
spine. He had heard people scream in pain during a car accident, but
this wasn't even remotely close. Everyone picked up speed, moving toward
the village. That was a man in total agony. Butfrom what? What in the
world could inflict so much pain on a human being that I heard him
several hundredfeet away? Kevin struggled to keep up as Abdul began to
mumble something Kevin was certain were obscenities and curses against
the Iraqi soldiers.

They reached the stream, which was deeper than he'd anticipated. The
water quickly rose over his shoulders as he kept his weapon above his
head. The PRC-90 was waterproof. Although they were in a hurry to get to
the other side, Kevin couldn't help but enjoy a brief second of pleasure
as the cool water caressed his multiple bruises. The throbbing from his
leg also seemed to subside as he waded next to Abdul.

They reached the other side and positioned themselves behind the Hind.
Ishmael looked at the group and motioned them to surround the village.
Half the Kurds went in one direction and the rest followed Ishmael, who
was already moving to the back of one of the houses.

As he wiped the water off his face, Kevin jumped at the loud sound of a
second shriek. This one had come from a woman, but the intensity was the
same. The terror in her voice made Kevin quicken his pace, almost
catching up with Ishmael.

Kevin walked on his own, the pain from his leg momentarily suppressed by
the rush of adrenaline. He pressed his soaked back hard against the wall
of a house and was instantly reminded of the bruises he'd gotten while
rolling away from the Iraqi helicopter the day before.

Abdul reached for the rifle slung across his back and brought it out.
Kevin flipped the safety lever mounted on the slide of his Model 39. He
glanced at Khalela, who also had her pistol cocked and ready. Kevin
couldn't help but notice how the wet white T-shirt that she wore
underneath the buttoned-down fatigues stuck to her breasts. Hard black
nipples pressed firmly against the soaked fabric.

Khalela moved toward the back door, closely followed by Ishmael, Abdul,
and Kevin. She pushed it open. The four went quietly through the open
doorway and into the back room, where they could hear mumbles and cries
coming from one of two rooms on either side of the short corridor.
Ishmael positioned himself against one side with Abdul, Khalela and
Kevin on the other.

Kevin watched Khalela position her body sideways to the door, then in
one swift move, she lifted and kicked her right foot at the center of
the door. The heel landed hard. The door gave, and she dropped to the
ground and rolled inside. He followed her and heard Abdul crashing
against the second door.

The room was empty. Khalela turned around and raced for the second room.
He ran after her but froze at the entrance.

The bloody, bullet-riddled bodies of an older man and a woman lay on the
right side of the room. Kevin shifted his gaze to the soldier kneeling
next to Abdul. The pants of his uniform were down at his ankles; his
contorted face was accompanied by cries as he begged for his life. Kevin
felt some sympathy for him, but that quickly faded away and was replaced
with anger when he spotted the bruised, half-naked body of a girl. Sweet
Jesus! he thought as Khalela rushed past Ishmael and kneeled n ext to
her, covering her with a blanket from the bed. What kind of an animal
could do ... ? Kevin's eyes locked with the girl's, who could not have
been older than fifteen. An immense sense of compassion filled him when
the young girl, tears rolling down her cheeks, crawled over to the old
couple, whom by now Kevin had guessed were her parents. K-halela stayed
with her. All of a sudden the bruises and cuts on his body seemed
insignificant.

Kevin felt his anger spiraling out of control. The overwhelming sight of
such brutality threw him into a rage that took control of his body. He
shifted his gaze back and forth between the begging soldier and the now
quiet girl resting her head on Khalela's shoulder.

With the unbending resolve to avenge an unforgivable crime, Kevin tucked
the Smith & Wesson Model 39 in the Velcro-secured pouch on the side of
his soaked flight suit and slowly walked toward Abdul. He reached for
the knife tucked in the Kurd's waist sash. His eyes never left Abdul's
as he curled the fingers of his right hand around the wooden handle.
Kevin noticed his hand wasn't shaking, an observation that surprised
him. He stepped behind the kneeling soldier, grabbed a clump of hair,
and pulled the head back.

The girl looked at him once more. Her gaze melted with Kevin's as in one
swift move he brought the knife down and across the soldier's neck,
severing the larynx. Oblivious to the jerks of the soldier and the
sickening expulsion of bloody foam, Kevin held the soldier's head back
until the man went limp. He then let him crash headfirst against the
rocky floor.

Ishmaol stared at Kevin with respect. Abdul looked at him in surprise.
It was obvious to Kevin that neither of them had expected him to have
reacted like that.

A third shriek made the girl press her hands against her ears while
Ishmael and Abdul raced to the front of the house where, joined by
Kevin, the trio found the source.

Kevin saw that most of the villagers were lined up on the left side of
the clearing in the middle of the village. Out of a high-voltage
electric generator, a thick pair of cables snaked into the adjacent
knee-deep pond. Three bodies floated face down in its electrified waters
while two soldiers dragged a kicking and screaming woman toward it.

A soldier wearing a slightly different uniform than the restprobably
their leader, reflected Kevin-stood next to the pond. The woman was
thrown at his feet. The officer slowly leaned down and gently helped her
up. Words were exchanged.

Kevin looked at Ishmael. The Kurd's hardened expression mixed with a
dash of guilt conveyed all the explanation Kevin needed. The villagers
were being interrogated about Ishmael and his guerrilla band.

A few moments later, the leader slapped the woman across the face and,
grabbing her by the shoulders, he shook her to no avail. The woman did
not respond.

Showing signs of obvious frustration, the leader picked her small frame
off the ground and threw her into the pond; she landed on her side.

Her first and final shriek pierced Kevin to his soul. He watched through
tears as amused Iraqi soldiers, using long poles, mercilessly pushed the
young woman back into the water after she had managed to roll to the
edge, until there was no movement left, no life, no sound ... except for
the small ripples lazily slapping the cracked and weathered concrete
edges of the pond.

Kevin breathed deeply and gazed into Ishmael's eyes, which held nothing
but hatred and torment. Quietly sobbing, Abdul's hands covered his face.

"No more," Ishmael said with fierce conviction. The unyielding
determination of the Kurdish leader's voice fueled Kevin's internal
fire.

"That's right, my friend, no more," Kevin responded. They helped up
Abdul who, still sobbing, mumbled a single word. Ishmael and Kevin got
closer.

"Uktun ... uktun .

Kevin watched Ishmael freeze for a moment before placing both hands on
the Iranian-born Kurd. "Hasstha?"

Abdul nodded.

Ishmael continued in Arabic for several moments before helping his
larger comrade to his feet. Abdul regained his composure and slowly
walked to the back of the house.

Puzzled, Kevin was about to ask Ishmael what had happened when the
Kurdish leader motioned him to follow. He complied and pulled out the
Model 39 once more. They passed the room where Khalela was still
comforting the young girl and went out the back, where he saw seven more
dead soldiers piled against the back wall. Blood dripped down their
bodies from their slit throats.

"There are only fifteen left in the clearing," Ishmael said to him. "We
will surprise them!" Without another word, Ishmael stepped up on several
empty oil barrels and crawled on the roof. Abdul followed him and then
helped Kevin up.

From the top, Kevin noticed that most of the rebels were already
strategically positioned on the roofs of houses surrounding the clearing
with their automatic weapons pointed at the Iraqi perpetrators. Two
soldiers were dragging the next victim to the pond: a young boy. Kevin
looked at Ishmael, who nodded, and after briefly scanning the rooftops,
he inhaled and screamed at the top of his lungs:

"Fi aman Allah!"

A torrential blanket of mixed-caliber rounds swept across the clearing,
stopping mere feet from where the villagers huddled against one another.
Fourteen soldiers dropped instantly under the deadly accurate fire from
Ishmael's sharpshooters. Kevin noticed that three villagers stood up and
grabbed the last soldier as he tried to run away. Then he saw something
he had only heard about. As the gunfire subsided, the women approached
the trapped soldier. Each picked up a stone. The soldier must have known
what was going to happen to him because he began to spit and curse.

Through his binoculars, Kevin watched how the soldier was nearly stoned
to death, saved only by Ishmael's men, who raced across the clearing and
ordered the villagers off.

Minutes later, the Kurdish band stood by the edge of the pond. The
village was quiet, save for the continuous hum of the electric
generator. The bruised but proud Iraqi soldier was next to them. A light
breeze swirled Khalela's hair and brushed it against Kevin, who now held
the raped girl's hand.

Kevin watched Ishmael's stern gaze fight an equally unyielding stare
from the soldier. Ishmael motioned him to step into the pond. The
soldier hesitated at first, but with a self-dignity and pride that Kevin
had never seen, the soldier nodded his head, looked around him, and
finally jumped in. He screamed and rolled around in the waters until he
too floated silently, alongside his victims.

When it was over, Kevin closed his eyes and turned his head.

"Are you all right?"

He turned to Khalela's dazzling eyes and felt comforted by them; there
was a welcoming warmth about them that drew him in. He wasn't sure why
he felt so attracted to this beautiful stranger. He sighed. "Yeah, I'm
fine. Perhaps a little too much excitement for one day."

"Yes, we should all rest soon."

The humming stopped; the generator was disconnected. Abdul waded into
the pond and lifted the body of the young woman they had seen killed
minutes ago.

"Khalela?"

"Yes?"

"Back in the house ... while you were in the other room "Yes?"

"We watched that young woman die. Abdul began to sob, and at the sight
mumbled the word uktun. What does it mean?"

Khalela closed her eyes for a second before looking back at Kevin. He
saw a tinge of sadness in her light green eyes. "Kevin, that woman was
his sister."

Kevin's eyes filled once more as he watched his Iranian friend climb out
of the water with his head buried against his sister's body. He carried
her to the side of the clearing and was soon joined by the women, who
kneeled in front of her and raised their arms to the sky.

"Jesus Christ! What kind of world is this?"

"A world very different from where you come from, pilot Dalton," was the
reply from behind.

"I'm sorry about Abdul's sister, Ishmael," Kevin said, turning around.

"We live in a world of sorrow. Earth is a test of worthiness before
acceptance to Allah's kingdom. We all must do what we have to in order
to get there. You fly jets for your government, I fight against mine.
Neither of us is right in the eyes of many, but as long as we are right
in the eyes of Allah, then our place in paradise is secured. Allah will
see to that. Do not worry if your enemy does you wrong today. Allah will
make it right in the end. There is an old Arab proverb: "Have patience
and the body of your enemy will be carried past your door.' Have
patience, pilot Dalton. Allah's justice will prevail, even if it takes a
lifetime. After all, a lifetime is what we all have to prove ourselves
worthy to enter Allah's kingdom."

Kevin was caught off guard, not knowing how to reply to those words,
especially coming from someone who had just ordered another man to jump
to his death. But then he realized that this was a war, and for the
Kurds, a holy war. They were not fighting for oil wells or money; the
Kurdish guerrillas had been fighting for centuries to simply live in
peace.

"You're right," responded Kevin, staring into Ishmael's dark face. "We
all must do what we have to do."

Ishmael nodded and turned to his men. Kevin and Khalela walked back to
the house as two women came and took the young girl away.

They walked in silence. Khalela spoke first.

"Kevin?"

"Yes?"

"What you did in the house..

"You mean ..

"Yes." Kevin frowned, and as they reached the front porch of one of the
stone houses, he sat down on a rustic wooden bench in the shade. She sat
next to him. "I can't say I'm very proud of what I did, but at the time
it felt right. I didn't kill a man today, at least not a man as defined
in my book. That was a beast, probably the product of a deranged
government, but nevertheless a beast. All I did was help the world by
removing him. In the Navy, they told us not to take military matters
personally. A dogfight was supposed to be just a dogfight, period. Our
military code of honor called for professional behavior and courtesy at
all times on the battlefield. All of that changed after the other day's
air battle. I wasn't fighting against a professional pilot but against
another beast. That butcher not only shot down my flight leader, but
kept his cannons blasting on the plane as it plummeted toward the ocean!

What was I supposed to do? Obey an order to knock-it-off from someone
hundreds of miles away who had no knowledge of what really happened up
there?

No, Khalela, I couldn't allow that Iraqi bastard to fly off and get away
with that murder, just like I didn't let that beast get away with raping
that girl. It just ain't right!"

Khalela stared at him and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry I upset
you," she started, in a voice filled with understanding. "You did what
you felt was right; you followed your heart and that's all that matters.
I have seen only a handful of men do what you did today, and I tell you,
it may seem easy for observers to see someone else kill a person in cold
blood, but when it's you pulling the trigger or plunging the knife, it's
a whole different story."

"You mean, you too have-"

"Like you, I also had no choice. I live in a small border town in Israel
and-"

"I knew it! I knew you were Israeli. You're Mossad, aren't you?"
interrupted Kevin.

Khalela obviously realized what she had just said, and blushed. Probably
upset at her unprofessionalism, decided Kevin. Somehow things had gotten
a little too personal, and it was obvious that her feelings had
momentarily clouded her senses. Kevin noticed that she recovered
quickly. "Yes, I am Israeli."

"Why the big secret? I mean, we're allies."

"You are right, we are allies and we should help each other."

Kevin leaned back against the wall and briefly inspected his leg. One
side of the bandage was stained red. "The pain is coming back."

"It is going to hurt tonight. You have been putting too much pressure on
it. You had better stay off it for the rest of the day."

"You're the doctor," he responded in an amused tone that drew a smile
from Khalela. "Khalela ... that's a unique name. Does it mean
something?"

Once again, Kevin noticed how she closed herself off, as if refusing to
let her true feelings show. Why, Khalela? he silently asked as he stared
into her mirror-brilliant eyes. Khalela sighed and turned to look at
him. "It means 'beloved."'

Kevin gave her a soft smile. "Nice, very nice. Your parents gave you a
name as beautiful as-"

"I do not have any family!" she interrupted, getting up and turning
around.

Kevin exhaled and shook his head. "Look, I didn't-"

"I know. I think I had better go and check with Ishmael and the others.
We need to move those helicopters before the Iraqis realize what has
happened, or they will level this place." Without turning back around,
she started to walk away.

"You shouldn't be afraid to let some people into your life, Khalela.
We're not all bad."

She stopped momentarily, and then continued walking toward the Kurdish
band assembled by the pond.

BAGHDAd.

Day Three. 1000 Local Time.

Sitting in the back of a Mercedes limousine on the way to a propaganda
live TV filming, Saddam Hussein, cigar in hand, listened to the voice of
General Manesh on the car's speakerphone system. A Hind had managed to
destroy another American rescue helicopter, and its pilot had also
scared off two other American helicopters, one of them an Apache.

The Iraqi leader leaned back on the soft leather seat and smiled
broadly. This was simply too good to be true. Allah was indeed being
merciful to him.

His smile, however, quickly vanished when Manesh mentioned that he had
lost contact with that Hind. Actually, with three additional Hinds he
had sent into the area loaded with troops to interrogate the villagers
on the whereabouts of a band of Kurdish guerrillas believed to have
rescued the American pilot. Saddam encouraged Manesh to find the Hinds
and the pilots.

Without waiting for a reply, Saddam hung up, took another draw from his
cigar, and slowly exhaled the smoke. The lost Hinds really didn't matter
much to him in comparison to the downed American craft. Things were
definitely going his way this time around.

THE WHITE House. Day Three. 0230 Local Time.

It took a few seconds after waking up for President Bill Clinton to
realize that the phone was ringing and that he had fallen asleep while
reading in bed. One of several reports still lay scattered on his lap.

Checking his watch, he realized it had only been an hour since his phone
conversation with Generals Marshall and Draper, when the president
decided to proceed with a recon mission over Allahbad.

First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton, her face buried in a pillow, mumbled
something incoherent and rolled to her side of the bed.

Rubbing a hand over his face, the president reached for the phone.
"Yes?"

"I apologize for disturbing you at this hour, Mr. President, but I think
you better turn on CNN. Saddam's about to put on a show," said the voice
of an aide.

"Ah, yes, yes ... all right. Thanks."

With all trace of sleep rapidly vanishing from his mind and body, the
president quickly hung up and snagged the remote control next to the
phone.

The TV came on. Hillary quickly sat up in bed.

"What are you doing?" she asked while rubbing her eyes. The president
detected an edge in her voice.

The Commander in Chief briefly turned to the First Lady, who, wearing a
light pink gown, covered a yawn with a long white hand.

"Sorry, honey. Saddam's just-"

The president stopped talking when the image of Saddam Hussein, dressed
in one of his classic brown uniforms, walked next to a long table backed
against a white wall and pointed to items recovered from the wrecks of
the F- 1 4 and one of two downed rescue helicopters. The camera panned
from a confident Saddam to blackened flight helmets, boots, side panels
with USAF markings, and even an ejection seat and a parachute. The Iraqi
president picked up a number of watches, rings, sunglasses, and dogtags,
and he said that all these men had died useless deaths. He said that
their blood was on President Clinton's hands for sending them there.

Then the camera returned to Saddam, zooming in on the Iraqi leader's
face until it filled the entire screen. Narrowed brown eyes burning with
hatred, lips tightly pursed, nostrils inflating with every breath,
Saddam Hussein remained quiet for several seconds before.he began to
speak in Arabic. A commentator's voice came on, translating the words.

"Mr. President Bill Clinton. You may be stronger than me, but I shall
not obey you. If you dare to attack me in force, I will make another
movie like this, except that behind me there will be a mountain of
American-helmets and guns." Saddam Hussein stopped talking and gazed at
the world.

Feeling Hillary's hand on his shoulder, President Clinton breathed
deeply and defiantly stared back at the Iraqi leader until the image was
replaced by the CNN anchor. He flipped the TV off and set the remote
control back on the nightstand.

Hillary stared at him, her face somber in the soft light, blond hair
falling gently over her shoulders. She didn't have to say anything.
After all these years, the president could read her face like a book.

He put a hand over hers, giving it a soft lingering pressure. In return,
Hillary gave him an oblique glance and nodded.

President Bill Clinton shifted his gaze back to the blank TV screen.

EXPECTATIONS SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day
Three. 1045 Local Time.

Drenched in sweat, his head still pounding from a combination of
exhaustion and a turbulent flight, Robert Bourdeaux slowly strolled into
the communications tent and looked quietly about the room until he found
Peter Halston. The colonel, standing behind a radar operator, waved him
over. It amazed Bourdeaux how well Haiston looked today compared to the
night before. Halston approached him.

"Damn, Bob. You look like shit."

Bourdeaux's eyebrows rose. "Well, it sure looks like someone got a
decent night's sleep around here."

The tanned colonel smiled broadly. "I feel like a million bucks  ...
although I did wake up for a couple of hours at midnight. Still, got my
eight hours."

"Yeah, well, after the night I had, I can use a good chunk of that
million dollars."

"All right, so you had a bad flight," Halston said, his face suddenly
turning serious. "Now, tell me how things went at the Black Hole."

Bourdeaux tilted his head. "I think it went quite well. General Marshall
seemed impressed with the information from my Kurdish friends and with
my analysis of the satellite data. I also found out that all the stuff
I'm finding's going to the president himself."

Haiston's eyes opened wide. "No shit?"

"Nope. I'm hoping that the president sees the data in the same way we
do,"

"So, what was the outcome?"

"The general said that he was going to call the president, and that
someone would get back to me on this. With that I was dismissed to get
back here as soon as possible."

"I guess that's better than nothing, although I hope we can do something
right away."

"Has any new information arrived from satellite surveillances"

"You got some new shots from the NPIC on the link. Here." Halston
snagged a large manila envelope from corner of the table and extracted
two dozen prints.

Bourdeaux sighed, regarding the photographs with a contemptuous glance.
"I guess I can always catch some sleep later."

The two of them settled down to go over the frames.

Under a partly cloudy sky, Captain Amanda Green walked away from the
decelerating rotor of the Pave Hawk helicopter and headed for the
communications tent, where she knew a full debriefing would take place
before she could rest. The debriefing isn't going to befun, she
reflected as she approached one of the few air-conditioned tents on the
base.

Inside she was welcomed by a rush of cool air that seemed to soothe away
the glistening sweat covering her face, neck, and exposed forearms below
the rolled-up sleeves of her flight suit. Her short brown hair, soaked
and flattened against her head, gave the impression that she had just
walked out of the shower.

She saw Orlando Delaney already talking to Colonel Halston and the CIA
man at the end of the long, narrow tent, past the row of radio
operators. Halston saw her and gestured her over.

Halston sat across from the CIA man at the dark green table at the back
of the tent under the yellowish overheads. Delaney, who was sitting next
to Halston, got up as she approached. She noticed a number of satellite
photos spread over the table.

"Hello, Captain," Halston said without getting up. "Please, have a seat.
Captain Delaney, anything else you wish to add?"

The skinny native of Mississippi slowly shook his head. "Nope. I think
that about wraps it up."

"All right. I might have to ask you a few more questions later."

"No problem, sir." With that, Delaney turned around and left.

Amanda looked at Halston, who pointed to a chair directly across from
the CIA man. "Hello, Colonel," she responded, following Halston's lead
in keeping it formal when addressing one another in the presence of
others.

"Captain, this is Robert Bourdeaux, senior analyst, CIA. Bob, this is
Captain Amanda Green."

"Captain."

"Mr. Bourdeaux." Amanda studied the tall and slightly overweight man
wearing a wrinkled white shirt. Bourdeaux had black hair that needed
combing and a pair of bloodshot brown eyes, that, she soon realized,
were also studying her.

Halston raised a hand, palm up. "What happened out there, Captain?"

Amanda leaned against the wooden back of her chair. She rubbed  her
fingers through her soaked hair and wiped the cool sweat from her
cheeks. "In a nutshell, an Iraqi Hind-D ambushed us, sir. AWACS had it
on radar for a few minutes, but then it descended and hid. We had a
general idea of where it would be, but before we realized it, it fired
on the other Pave Hawk. Captain Delaney managed to get out of the way in
time. We were flying a few hundred feet behind the first rescue helo and
also got out of the way. After it went down, Delaney ordered us out of
the area, and he engaged in a short dogfight with the Hind without
casualties on either side, but retreated after AWACS reported three more
enemy craft."

"Any sight of the F-14's crew?"

"No, sir. It all happened very quickly-from the time we spotted the
village to the time we left was less than a minute. For all I know, they
could have watched the entire thing from the ground."

"Did you try to make radio contact with Lieutenant Dalton?"

"The major tried before the attack but got no response. All we had was a
beacon."

"What about after the fight, did you try to contact them on your way
out?"

"Well, their radio went dead."

"What? You mean ... "Their beacon went off the air, sir."

"Was it because you were too far away?"

"Well, there's no way of knowing that, sir. The signal simply
disappeared. It could mean that we got out of range, or perhaps that the
radio was turned off, or maybe even destroyed."

"Damn! Who knows when we'll be able to get another fix on their
position. All right. Where is Major Poole?"

Amanda glanced toward the tent's entrance. "He should be here any
second, sir. He was right behind me."

Halston looked at Bourdeaux. "What do you think, Bob?"

"I'm not a soldier, but it seems as if Captain Delaney did as good as
anyone could have under the circumstances. Maybe we weren't fully
prepared for that rescue mission. Perhaps we should have sent more
hardware along."

Halston sat back on his chair. "What a fucking mess. The Iraqis are
already using this stuff for their propaganda war."

Halston stood up and then caught himself staring into Amanda's brown
eyes for a few more seconds than he intended. There was a deep sadness
in her gaze. He couldn't help feeling sorry for her. He could tell that
somehow she felt partly responsible for the way things had gone today,
but in reality it wasn't anybody's fault. It was CSAR, and CSAR was an
unpredictable beast. He wanted to reach out and tell her that it would
be all right, but the professional in him wouldn't allow such an
emotional display. She was a soldier and he her superior. Period.
"Anything else you want to add, Captain?"

Amanda lowered her gaze, put both hands on her small waist, and exhaled.
"Ali ... no, sir. I think that's it."

"That will be all for now. You're dismissed."

Amanda made eye contact with Halston once more before saying, "Yes,
sir."

After she left, a somber Halston noticed Bourdeaux grinning at him.
"What? What?" Halston said defensively.

"Little Peter, I think you're being a bad boy."

Halston's face went through a few shades of red. "It showed?

Damn!"

Bourdeaux smiled. "It's all among friends, Pete, but if you care to hear
my opinion, I'd say that you're playing with fire."

"Nothing's happened yet, man," Halston responded while looking around
the tent to make sure nobody could listen. "Really. We're just friends."

"That's how it all starts. On the positive side, though, I'm glad you've
finally decided to move forward in that field."

"Listen, I don't want you to get the wrong impression here. Nothing. I
mean, nothing has happened, and I have serious doubts about anything
happening at all. There's a serious conflict of interest here. We can't
have it both ways you know."

Bourdeaux shrugged. "Where there is a will ..

Halston nodded.

"Listen," Bourdeaux continued. "Strictly as a friend, my advice to you
is that if you're serious about her, then figure a way to work around
it. Get her out of CSAR ... Hell, you figure it out. I don't know much
about her, but on the surface she appears to be one serious lady. I hate
to bring up the past, but you of all people should know just how
difficult it is to get a hold of one. Remember, this conflict will be
over one day, and unless you die in it, you'll be around afterward for
many, many years. Whether you spend those years with or without her is
something that will be decided based on how you act today. So, get your
priorities straight, ol' buddy. Anyway, enough of the speech. You're an
adult. I'm gonna get some sleep before I pass out." With that, Bourdeaux
got up and left the tent.

USS RANGER. EIGHTY MILES NORTH OF BAHRAIN, PERSIAN GULF. Day Three. 1130
Local Time.

Lieutenant Chico Delgado approached the technicians working on an F-14A
Tomcat in the rear of the hangar. These were his friends from the barrio
and even though they weren't officers, Delgado had always mingled with
them. Although the bars on his shoulders placed him in a different
class, in his heart he knew he was one of them: a barrio survivor.

"Heard anything about Crackers?" asked one of them.

"Nope. The CO's keepin' a tight lip about the whole situation. He says
that our forces in Saudi are in charge of the rescue operation. I say
it's a bunch of bullshit not to keep us informed."

"You got that right, man. I can't believe your CO's acting that way.
Makes you fucking wonder, doesn't it?"

"Yep. Sure does."

Delgado remained there for ten more minutes before heading back to his
quarters. He looked back at the streamlined Tomcat his friends were
working on before walking away, fully convinced that regardless of the
competition, behind him stood the best damned fighter plane in the
world.

AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Three. 1145 Local
Time.

General Abunnasr Manesh stormed out of the communications bunker and
into a strong midafternoon sun. Squinting and cursing, he walked toward
the concrete shelter, where his green-striped Mig stood fueled and ready
to go, except for the last of the bird debris which a ground crew member
was scraping off the armored windscreen. All of the leading edges had
been repaired.

The conversation with his president had not gone well at all, and to
make matters worse, Fassan Tabriz, his radio operator, had been
unsuccessful in trying to make contact with the Hinds. What in the name
ofallah is going on? Manesh thought. First we lose two Gazelles and now
four Hinds? Something is very wrong here. Fassan had also warned him
about an increased level of Allied fighter activity in the no-fly
zone-at least as much as Fassan's radar could detect after the
American's powerful jamming systems significantly degraded the
Russian-made radar's Capability. It didn't matter any longer to Manesh.
He was not about to wait inside a bunker. Manesh knew he was good, and
at the controls of the powerful Mig-29, he considered himself better
than everyone else, including the American pilots. Besides, if things
ever got bad, as long as he remained close enough to the air base, he
could quickly land and taxi his craft into the shelter.

"Do that later!" he told the ground crew member. "I need to go on a
reconnaissance mission immediately."

Without responding, the technician slid down the side ladder and raced
under the plane to remove the wheel chocks and missile covers, while
Manesh slipped on his helmet and crawled inside the cockpit.

Both Tumanskii turbofans kicked the Mig-29 forward in response to
Manesh's controlled push of the side-by-side throttles to his left. He
mentally went through the pre-taxi checklist. A mere formality at this
point, he reflected as the 39,000-pound plane cruised out of the bunker
and through the heat wave lifting off the broiling tarmac.

Manesh lowered the canopy and activated the communications radio by
depressing a button on the control stick.

"Fassan, Manesh here, have you established contact with the Hinds?"

"No, General I shall continue trying.

"What are the coordinates of their last transmission?"

"Thirty-three degreesfifty minutes north, forty-five degrees east, sir.

Manesh taxied to the end of the runway and checked the heavily weathered
windsock to his right. It lay flat against the pole; Manesh would have
to use afterburners during takeoff to compensate for the loss of head
wind and the hot, thinner air.

Pressing both feet against the pedals, he applied full throttle and felt
the afterburners' kick. He released the brakes and the craft bolted
forward, accelerating over the runway and achieving rollout speed
fifteen seconds later. Manesh lifted the flaps and gear, and maintained
400 knots at fifty feet while flying the intercept vector.

Ishmael Barzani and seven other Kurds were busy pushing the last of the
Hinds down the river, which although not deep enough to cover the entire
craft, appeared to run quickly enough to drag the craft downstream, away
from the village. Ishmael also knew that a mile downstream the narrow
river flowed straight into the deeper and much wider Euphrates.

Ishmael frowned. The job of pushing would have gone much faster if Abdul
had been helping them, but the large Kurd continued to moum his sister's
murder back in the village. Ishmael had known Abdul for a long time but
had never seen his friend cry. Then again, he reflected, Abdul had never
lost a loved one before.

Those thoughts quickly faded away when Ishmael sank into the knee-deep
mud along the shore of the river. The helicopter's gear also sank under
the colossal weight of the craft and weapons.

"Just a few more feet, my brothers. Allah will give us the strength!" he
shouted, encouraging his men in their difficult task.

Manesh leveled off at twenty thousand feet to scan the area for the
missing helicopters. He knew that flying so high would result in his
detection by the Americans, but he had no choice. He had to find out
what had happened to the Hinds. "Repeat coordinates, over."

Joan "Thirty-three degrees fifty minutes north, forty-five degrees east,
sir.

@ME" Do you have a visual?"

4m, "I do not have shit in view yet and I have been circling the area
for two minutes!" cursed Manesh. "I can't hang around at this altitude
for much longer. The Americans probably already have me on their radar."

The Mig started a circular descent. Nothing, he thought as his eyes
continued to scan the village and surrounding riverwhat in the name
ofallah?

He wasn't sure what it was, but Manesh decided it definitely did not
belong there. He had spotted an odd reflection on the river. He leveled
off at fifteen thousand feet and kept the craft in a turn, trying to
decipher what had caught his attention. The river reflected the sun's
beams in nonuniform patterns. But what caught his eye wasn't the natural
reflection of the water's surface but a superimposed reflection that did
not change as it moved downstream. It was not shaped like a boat; boats
usually show up as dark surfaces over the light and bright river. No,
Manesh told himself, this is definitely not shaped like a boat but like
...  a cross?

Confusion and curiosity took over as he threw the stick forward while
still turrung left, forcing his craft on a steep descent. He noticed
there were three other cross shapes flowing downstream. Then he realized
they were not crosses but ... helicopter rotors!

Ishmael was the first to notice the silvery shape against the blue sky,
accelerating toward them as they gave the last Hind a final push.

"Race for cover my brothers!"

Several looked in his direction but quickly glanced the other way as the
sound from the Mig finally reached them. Ishmael watched in horror as
his men, some up to their waists in mud, struggled to reach cover.
Ishmael dug both hands in the reddish mud trying to thrust his body
forward while pulling his feet off the bottom of the river.

lipr General Manesh the revelation had come slowly at first but had then
flooded into his mind as he came to the painful conclusion that his
pilots and craft had become the victims of ... Damned savages! He
silently cursed as he dropped to treetop level to avoid surface-to-air
missiles and activated the six-barrel cannon in the left wing root.
Through-the HUD he zeroed in on several Kurds by the shore and squeezed
the trigger.

Khalela jumped to her feet when she heard the cannon fire and was about
to run outside when Kevin stopped her.

"What are you doing?" she screamed as she tried to pull free.

Kevin put a hand to her chin and forced her face toward the back window.
"Look!"

The Iraqi Mig completed a low pass over the Kurds by the shore. Several
men were bent over, wounded, half of their bodies still stuck in the
mud. The rest, Ishmael included, continued their struggle to pull free
and race for the village.

"The Javelins! Where are they?" shouted Kevin.

"They will not do any good against that! All we would do is draw
attention to ourselves."

"We've got to try something!" he persisted. "Where are they?"

Khalela grabbed his hand and they raced out the front door and into
havoc. Men, women, and children ran screaming in every direction.
Mothers held their infant sons tightly while younger men helped the old,
sick, or handicapped. Most knew what would happen to them if captured,
especially after what the Kurds had done to the Iraqi soldiers. Stories
of blistering gas were common knowledge among everyone in the region.

"Pilot Dalton!"

Kevin snapped his head to the left. It was Abdul. "Wait, Khalela!"

The large Kurd raced toward them carrying the Javelins. Kevin grabbed
one launcher and missile canister. Khalela did the same and the three
raced to the edge of town facing the river.

"See it?" Kevin scanned the sky but could not see the Mig.

"No," responded Khalela.

"Damn! How do you work one of these things?" he asked her as he fumbled
with the launcher unit.

"Here, look. Snap the canister on the back of the aiming unit like
this." Kevin watched as Khalela's hands moved purposely for a few
seconds, clipping the missile/canister combination onto the back of the
green-painted launcher. He did the same.

"Got it. What now?"

"Okay, listen, this is not an infrared-seeking missile. After you fire
it, you must guide it to the target."

"Are you kidding me? Do you know how fast that Mig's flying?"

"That is what I was trying to tell you when you told me that we had to
try something!"

Kevin backed down. "All right, all right. What's next?"

"Bring the assembled unit up and rest it on your right shoulder, aim and
fire."

"Just like that?"

"Yes, simple, isn't it? The only thing you must remember is to keep the
target centered in your sight. The rest is auto-"

Kevin scanned the sky and saw the plane high on the horizon to the
north. "Visual! Got a visual on the bastard!"

"Got it," Khalela said, lifting her unit and resting it on her right
shoulder.

"It's coming around for another pass." Kevin watched Ishmael and three
other Kurds finally make it out of the mud and race across the dusty
field separating the village from the river. The Mig was in a final
dive. Kevin could see the vapor streams coming off the widely flared
leading-edge root extensions as the Fulcrum approached swiftly at about
a hundred feet. Kevin knew the pilot would sweep over and unload a few
hundred rounds without worrying much about ground fire or SAMS. The idea
was to get in and out of the ground troop's field of view in two or
three seconds using a combination of high speed and terrain-hugging
flying. However, to an observer up on the sidelines, like himself and
Khalela, the Mig would be exposed and fragile for a few more seconds,
because-fast or not-the Iraqi fighter would have to cruise right in
front of them. Perhaps, long enough to give a Javelin time to reach it.
At the very least, the Javelin would draw the pilot's immediate
attention away from the Kurds.

The Mig appeared to be doing what he expected. As the craft Zoomed
closer, Kevin's eyes opened wide in surprise and anger. "That Mig! It's
got green stripes across the nose and wings! That's the bastard who shot
me down!"

Khalela turned her head.

"Don't look at me!" he snapped. "Shoot the bastard down, and watch out.
He's likely to go vertical when he sees the incoming missile!"

Barely acknowledging his advice, she activated the aiming unit and
trained it on the Mig.

"Clear!"

She pressed the trigger.

General Manesh was about to unload another few hundred rounds on the
savages when he noticed a bright flash to his left followed by a river
of smoke coming directly at him.

What?

Instinctively, he broke his run and activated the chaff and flare
dispenser directly from his control stick as he pulled up and pushed
full power. The afterburning jerk propelled him vertically. He glanced
back to see if the missile had gone for the chaff. The missile was still
on him and closing.

Kevin saw that Khalela had listened to his advice and had anticipated
the Mig's move. She had kept her left hand under the forward section of
the launcher, allowing her to lift it up and follow the Mig's evasive
maneuver. He frowned as the Soviet-made craft hurtled higher and higher.
From the size of the missile and amount of rocket propellant left, Kevin
estimated that the accuracy of the weapon would decrease rapidly at that
altitude.

"Watch it," Kevin said. "The bastard can't go straight up forever. He's
gonna do a dive and turn, or maybe an inverted dive at the top. Stay
with him."

The Mig changed from vertical climb to an inverted loop and turn. Kevin
saw Khalela try to force the Javelin to mimic the fancy maneuver, but
the control signals sent via radio link to the Javelin's control
surfaces were not strong enough as both craft and missile shot past
fifteen thousand feet. He watched the missile run aimlessly for a few
more seconds before it plummeted back to earth. Kevin knew what would
come next and readied his own missile.

General Abunnasr Manesh was furious. The rebels had the nerve to fire
one of their token missiles at his superior aircraft. He completed the
loop and accelerated back down toward the source of the missile. He was
certain it had come from one of the houses by the edge of town near the
river.

He cursed himself for not being fully prepared for a ground battle. All
his missiles were air-to-air. Again, he would have to resort to his
cannon. He rolled out of the dive and threw the throttle forward.

Kevin had the incoming Mig in his sight as the muzzle flashes became
clearly distinguishable against the jet's grayish color. He pressed the
trigger and felt the powerful jerk as the twenty-six-pound missile left
the red-hot launcher unit and accelerated to Mach 1.8. The first 30mm
rounds from the Mig's cannon showered the area to his left, but Kevin
knew that the firing would not last. The Mig would have to pull away.

Manesh barely had time to pull up and turn hard left to avoid a head-on
collision with the incoming missile. To his surprise, it also did not go
for the chaff he dispensed but turned with him and slowly closed in.
Consecutive right and left evasive turns did not make any difference;
the missile kept on closing. Manesh put his craft into another steep
climb, outrunning the weapon, which ran out of propellant and fell to
the earth.

Khalela jerked Kevin's arm and pulled him to the side. "There's no use.
Let's go!"

Kevin threw the launcher unit to the ground and looked for Abdul, but he
was gone. Kevin knew she was right. Their only chance of downing that
Mig had been during their first, and maybe second, trial. The pilot in
him knew that the Mig's pilot was probably well aware of their little
game and would be coming around in seconds.

"Where is Abdul?"

"I don't know and we don't have time to find out. The Mig's turning
around. We're out of missiles!"

Kevin raced after her back into the village. By this time, the clearing
was deserted.

"Where's everybody?"

"Pilot Dalton! Over here, pilot Dalton!"

It was Abdul. Kevin turned around but did not see anyone in the
clearing. "Khalela, pilot Dalton!"

"Shit, do you see him, Khalela?"

"No ... wait, yes, yes! Over there!"

Kevin squinted and spotted his Iranian friend crazily waving his hands
by the side of the clearing, fifty-some feet away from the edge of the
circular pond. Half his body was inside a hole in the ground.

"What the-"

"Let's go, Kevin. Move!" She raced toward Abdul.

Kevin tried to catch up with Khalela but couldn't. The agonizing pain
from his wounded leg hampered him as he kicked his legs to go faster and
faster. The wind swirled his black hair as he heard the Mig's
afterburners. He didn't have to look. The Mig was making its third pass.
This time there were not going to be any missiles to delay its cannons.
Kevin knew exactly what that pilot was going to do.

"Don't look back. Run, run!" Khalela screamed from the hole.

With the sound of jet engines ringing in his ears, Kevin called upon the
last of his strength to propel his body as fast as his aching legs
allowed him. All other thoughts were thrust aside as he focused entirely
on making it into the The Mig's cannons came alive with a blistering
inferno of 30mm fire that created a cloud of dust around him. Kevin knew
those were the same.cannons that killed Lancaster, Campbell, and
Johnson. The same cannons that had killed those brave Kurds by the
shoreline. With the unbending determination that comes from repeatedly
defying and defeating death, Lieutenant Kevin Dalton reached into his
soul and tapped the overwhelming desire to stay alive, if for nothing
other than the sole purpose of seeking revenge against the murderous
Mig. Boldly ignoring the cloud of hell that surrounded him, Kevin
swiftly covered the last few feet and dove headfirst into the hole,
bringing Khalela down with him. Abdul quickly reached up and pulled down
a heavy steel door.

Inside the murky tunnel, disoriented, Kevin tried to readjust his
vision, still feeling threatened by the turmoil on the surface. He
jumped when several rounds struck the steel door, creating an
ear-piercing high-pitched sound that made everybody in the large cave
hold their hands to their ears. Children screamed and panic set in.
Kevin heard Ishmael's voice shouting over everyone else's until the
villagers slowly quieted down.

In the midst of all the chaos, still unable to see an inch from his
face, Kevin felt the soft yet powerful embrace of Khalela.

"It is going to be all right, Kevin. You made it, you made it," she
whispered from behind.

Kevin didn't respond. He leaned back and quietly rested the back of his
head against her shoulder. It felt warm, cozy, and welcoming. Closing
his eyes and breathing deeply, Kevin slowly let it all go. The burning
pain, the supersonic nightmares, the terror of facing death ... until it
all faded away. It felt as if Khalela's body absorbed everything,
draining the smothering pain and pulling him away from the harsh reality
that engulfed him. Slowly, Kevin Dalton left the agony behind and
peacefully surrendered his whole self to the soothing comfort of her
nearness.

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Three. 1230
Local Time.

Colonel Peter Halston despised the bureaucratic drudgery that absorbed
so much of his time. Bent over a pile of paperwork, he worked under the
light of a single bulb. He looked up from his work when someone pulled
open the canvas entrance flap of his tent.

"Pete?"

Halston recognized Amanda Green's voice as she came inside. There was a
somber look on her face.

"Yes, Amanda?"

She closed the canvas flap and approached his desk. "Listen, Pete, I
think perhaps we should put this whole friendship thing off for some
time. It's not that I'm worried about what others might say. I'm
confident in my abilities as a pilot. It's just that  ..." She stopped
and lowered her gaze.

Halston sat back and sighed. "You're afraid of getting involved, aren't
you? Afraid of getting close to someone during this conflict?"

She nodded.

Halston got up and walked around the desk. "Well, join the club, Captain
Amanda Green. I'm not just afraid. I'm scared shitless of getting
involved with you and losing you the same way I lost Elaine. It took me
years-years-to get over her, and I still have the damned nightmares to
deal with. Do you think I really want to do go through it again? No way.
But what choice do I have? What choice does any of us have? What's the
alternative? A lonely life? We have to take certain risks in this life,
and that's just one of them. Think about it. Think about it very
carefully and then make up your mind. A friend told me today that this
conflict would be over one day, and then what? Back to our lonely lives?

We have a chance, Amanda, you and I. And I'm willing to give it a try."

Before Halston had a chance to react, Amanda rushed into his arms.
Halston felt her powerful embrace, smelled her soft perfume. Their lips
met and they kissed intensely, seemingly for minutes, before slowly
pulling away just enough to gaze into each other's eyes.

"I think we're going to be all right, Captain," he said, smiling.

"I think so too, Colonel," she responded, rubbing a finger over his
lips, brushing off her lipstick. "I really think so, too."

FOLLOWING ORDERS: Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die.

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR litaqi BORDER. Day Three. 1245
Local Time.

The inside of the communications tent seemed particularly loud this day.
A dozen operators, sitting behind communication panels, remained in
constant touch with the AWACS flying overhead. Operators reached for
knobs, switches, and buttons while their eyes gazed into CRTS and
displays. All performed their duties almost automatically, each caught
up in his or her own little world of electronics.

Robert Bourdeaux watched their hands move purposefully over control
panels, flipping and switching as information browsed across color
displays. Some talked into the mouthpieces attached to their headsets.
Others watched screens and multiple displays under the overhead neon
lights, which cast a stark-white glow on the glossy dark green surface
of the metallic table where Bourdeaux sat.

A light breeze, unusual for the region, blew across the base. Staring at
the camouflage pattern of the canvas wall to his right, which moved
softly to the rhythm of the wind, Bourdeaux felt his headache coming
back. Halston had just been handed a two-paragraph note from General Roy
Marshall. Bourdeaux crumpled up the computer printout and threw it to
the side, startling Halston. Bourdeaux then quickly reached for his
bottle of Tylenol and took two. He got up and drove a fist into his
palm. Dammit! That stupid Draper! he silently cursed, sitting back down
and grabbing the edge of the table with both hands. He sure knows how to
piss me off!"

Bourdeaux stared at his friend. The note said that they now had
presidential sanction to proceed with the recon mission, to be followed
by a possible bomb raid if the information collected during the mission
came back positive. That wasn't what bothered Bourdeaux. The hidden
strings attached to the sanction were why he now had a pounding
migraine. His mind drifted back to General Kenneth Draper. The president
had appointed the undersecretary of Middle Eastern Affairs to oversee
the operation.

Oversee? Bullshit. Bourdeaux frowned as he finally understood Draper's
game. Although Bourdeaux had been successful in fending Draper off, what
good did it actually do? he asked himself, realizing that when Draper
had seen everyone else-especially the president and General
Marshall-agreeing with Bourdeaux's idea, the one-star general had
probably shifted gears and made everyone believe he was just making sure
all the bases had been covered by the CIA officer. Bourdeaux slowly
nodded, deciding that was most likely the way it happened after he'd
left CENTAF. Draper was now hooked up with the idea and would try to rob
all the press-and therefore all the gloryfrom those who'd actually
conceived and implemented the plan, which Draper had already baptized
Operation Desert Star. Politics. Working at the CIA, Bourdeaux could
smell a two-faced politician, and Draper stunk.

"But, Bob," Colonel Haiston said, "why is he coming here? All air
operations are coordinated through CENTAF. It's standard procedure."

"And it will be," responded Bourdeaux. "But in this case-given the
sensitivity of the operation-I think Draper convinced someone, maybe
even the president himself, that it would be important to keep a closer
eye on it, just in case our information turns out to be incorrect.
Draper must have used his influence to get assigned here as someone who
can pull the plug at the first indication that Allahbad's nothing but a
milk factory."

"Why can't that someone be you?"

"Well, this is when politics get in the way. I'm sure Marshall believes
that 1, or one of the high-ranking officers at this base, can make the
right call. My guess why Draper's heading this way is that the slimy
general's probably pulling strings at the White House. I bet you Draper
sees this as a way to get some press."

."Pamn. So, what's our next move?" Halston asked in a low voice.

Bourdeaux's hands tingled from lack of circulation. He loosened his grip
on the table.

"We pretend to play by his rules, but be on your guard at all times.
Like I said earlier, this has turned into a political game. Some of it's
new for me, too, but after getting burned a few times at the CIA, I've
learned the basics of the trade."

"So what are we supposed to do? Blow the mission to make Draper look
bad? It seems like we're stuck. Doomed if we succeed and doomed if we
don't."

"Maybe there's a way out."

"How? You said yourself that he's supposed to be overseeing things,
which means he's in charge."

"All right, Pete, first thing we gotta do is invite one of the TV
networks to do a special on the operation. They must sign a
nondisclosure agreement first, though. We can't let any part of this
operation leak out until the right time and after we edit their tapes,
but I'll be damned if I'm going to let that bastard take all the credit
when it's over."

Haiston smiled. "I like it. I'll get the network rep in here to take
some footage as the operation progresses. We'll beat Draper at his own
game."

KHAMIS MUSHAIT AIR BASE, SOUTHWESTERN SAUDI ARABIA. Day Three. 1300
Local Time.

After taxiing his F-117A "Black Jet" stealth fighter directly into the
hangar, It. Colonel Richard "Longhorn" Kramer climbed down the
four-segment ladder that snaked its way up the left side of the plane.
Tired and cranky from flying all night, Kramer headed for his barracks.
The noon sun stung his eyes. He reached for his Ray-Bans and put them on
as he scanned the mountains surrounding the isolated base. Nicknamed
Tonopah East, the air base had been reserved, for the second time, for a
squadron of the 37th Tactical Fighter Wing, uprooted to Saudi Arabia
from its once-secret base at Tonopah Test Range, Nevada.

Longhorn Kramer eyed two mechanics working on a helicopter just outside
the hangar. Both turned in his direction and waved. He smiled and waved
back. The forty-five-year-old colonel loved Saudi Arabia's dry weather,
which was not much different from Waco, Texas, where Kramer had spent
most of his youth. Except for the mountains, he decided. There were no
mountains in Central Texas. Hills, yes, but never mountains.

Kramer was a large man, almost six foot three and a hefty 235 pounds,
most of it solid muscle. His square face ended in an equally square jaw.
A thick but well-kept mustache partially covered a pair of full lips.
The mustache had at one point blended into a closely trimmed beard, but
all that remained were a pair of unfashionably-long sideburns,
marginally violating Air Force regulations. His fair skin, always a bit
sunburned, went well with his full head of light brown hair. Kramer was
a cowboy in the true sense of the word. He had grown up on a ranch in
central Texas, learned how to ride a horse at six and how to tame one at
thirteen. From branding cows and sheep to readying bulls and horses for
rodeos, Kramer did it all on his family's ranch ten miles east of Waco,
a city 120 miles south of Dallas. As one of seven boys-no girls-Longhorn
Kramer learned the oldest trade of the West from his father and older
brothers and passed it on to his younger brothers. Blue jeans were
passed down from the oldest to the youngest in his family. The brothers
had their duties and responsibilities around the ranch, which was enough
to give the Kramer boys plenty to do when not in school, since the ranch
surpassed ten thousand head of cattle and half that many sheep. Longhorn
Kramer loved the challenging and dirty, yet pure and simple, ranch work.
It was fulfilling, old-fashioned, and invigorating. Sometimes, he felt
the challenge more than the work itself. Each untamed horse was
different than the one before. Each lasso throw to catch and brand a cow
was never the same. Each weekend wild turkey shooting under a blazing
sunrise told Longhorn Kramer that this was the way life was meant to be
lived, in a corner of the world where deals were still closed based on a
man's good word and a handshake.

Yes, the young Kramer loved his ranch life, until the challenge slowly
faded away. The ranch duties that seemed to satisfy his other brothers
just didn't do it for him any longer. That was the day Longhorn Kramer
decided to look for another avenue to fill the ever-growing need for
challenge. That was the day he found the Air Force. Overnight he learned
everything he could about aviation and grew to love fighter planes more
than he did the Kramer way of life. And so he made the break. One day he
announced his plans at the family's breakfast table-breakfast was the
meal of the day-shocking all of them. Richard "Longhorn" Kramer broke a
century-long family tradition and joined the Air Force.

In spite of the heat, Kramer reached into a pocket of his flight suit
and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Golds. His eelskin-covered lighter, a
gift from his father-also a heavy smoker-matched his boots. The freedom
of being able to wear cowboy boots instead of regulation boots was one
of the privileges Kramer enjoyed most. A privilege he'd earned not only
because of his rank, but also because Kramer was one of a handful of
pilots who were qualified to fly the Black Jets into combat. Kramer had
initially proven his skills during Operation Just Cause in Panama, where
he'd led his squadron of F-117As into enemy territory and back out
before the Panamanians had realized what hit them. Daririg Desert Storm,
he'd shown his skills time and time again by flying a record forty-three
sorties with a near-perfect ninety-five percent kill ratio. Longhorn
Kramer had put just about each of his Paveway laser-guided bombs dead on
target.

He took a last draw before going into his barracks. Pulling off his
boots, he snuggled his large frame in the thin mattress and closed his
eyes under the peaceful humming of the air-conditioning unit.

Kramer felt something sticking him in the back. He reached behind him
and felt an envelope. He pulled it out and briefly glanced at it before
opening it.

"You've got to be fuckin' kiddin' me!" he shouted after reading the
short paragraph. He bolted up, put his boots back on and raced out of
his barracks and into a bright sun he'd thought he would not see again
until the following day.

"What in the hell's going' on, boss? This thing for real?" Kramer asked
his commanding officer, General Jeff Towers, slapping his new mission
orders on the large glass-covered wooden desk.

"Relax, Longhorn, you seem a little tense. Did you have a bad trip?"

"No, boss. Trip was fine, but just got in a couple of minutes ago and
thought I wasn't supposed to go back out for another twenty-four hours.
I'm in no shape to fly'n F- 1 17 right now. I spent all night in Riyadh
checking in on one of my men at the hospital, all morning making sure
those mechanics didn't screw up my jet, and three hours getting back
here. Before that I flew nonstop exercises for six days. I'm on the
edge, sir. I need a small break here. I can't go flying at 1900 this
evening. That means a briefing at 1700. Four hours of sleep's not gonna
cut it."

Kramer watched his commanding officer grab the single sheet of paper and
then check his watch. Towers' face showed the mileage of his fifty-three
years. The lanky general had more wrinkles than hairs on his head.

"You realize how important this mission is?"

"Yep. Exactly why I wanna make sure I'm well-rested. Don't wanna fuck it
up. "Member flight trainin'? Th' accidents?" Kramer pulled out his
Marlboro Golds and lighter. "You mind, sir?"

"Ah, no, no, that's fine, Longhorn. They're your lungs, not mine."

"Ya gotta die of somethin' ...  Well? What's it gonna be, boss?"

Kramer took a long draw and exhaled through his nostrils.

"Tell you what. It's still pretty early. I'll make sure nobody bothers
you for the rest of the day, and I'll make some phone calls to push out
the sortie to 2300 hours instead of the early evening mission we had
previously planned. CENTAF's divided this mission in two stages. The
first's pretty straight forward-a simple recon of the area to draw out
their defenses. From there you'll head back to the same base you just
came from and participate in a joint briefing with a few Navy Tomcat
pilots we'll use as decoys and CAP during the second half of the
mission. Anyway, I think we can cut down the briefing for the recon
mission to just one hour. That'll give you ... let's see ... almost nine
hours of sleep? I'll have your dinner delivered to your room. Fair
enough?"

"Thanks, boss." Kramer knew that bringing up the past would help make
his case. During the initial stages of the Lockheed F-117A stealth
fighter training, all flight operations had been conducted at night for
security reasons. Special precautions, such as keeping the fighters
inside the hangar until thirty minutes after sunset, and performing
ground operations in pitch-black conditions, were standard procedure.
The problem was that their workloads, which at times involved two
flights er night, were extremely high. That had resulted in pilot
spatial disorientation and fatigue, which in turn was the cause of a few
accidents.

"See ya." Kramer turned and headed for the door.

"Longhorn?"

"Yes, boss?" The cigarette was hanging off the side of his lip.

"Be careful."

Kramer grinned and took another draw. "You're worrin' too much, boss."

AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Three. 1320 Local
Time.

General Manesh walked away from his Mig-29. He was furious. The Kurds
had obviously managed to attack while the helicopters were on the
ground. He headed for the communications bunker across the runway and
was welcomed by a rush of cool air as he pushed the heavy door and
stepped inside the murky room. He found all but two operators sitting
behind the large circular radar screens. The only noise inside the
sound-insulated room was the constant humming of the air-conditioning
unit. Manesh blinked several times to readjust his vision. While he had
been in the air, he had ordered tanks into the area to destroy the
village. Those savages are going to pay dearly for what they have done,
he thought as he approached Fassan Tabriz. "Anything?"

"No, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Keep your eyes open."

"Yes, sir."

"Is this thing on?" He grabbed the microphone from a radio to the right
of the operators. "Yes, sir."

"Tune me in to the tanks that-"

"It's already tuned in to it, sir."

Manesh pressed the button on the microphone's handle. "Red Lion Leader,
Bakish Wind, do you copy?"

"We copy, Bakish Wind," responded the commander on the lead Soviet-made
T-72 tank. "Current position, over."

"Twenty miles from objective."

'ceta?"

"We are doing thirty miles per hour, sir. We will be there in forty
minutes.

"Too long. Repeat, too long. The rebels will be long gone by then. What
is the fastest you can go?"

"Forty miles per hour, sir, but I'm afraid the diesel engine might
overheat and "Do it."

"But, sir, we could-"

"Do it! Those blasphemous bastards destroyed four Hinds! Do you
understand? Four attack helicopters! I want those Kurdish rebels dead!"

"Yes, sir! Accelerating to maximum speed. We will be there in  ...
thirty minutes."

"Good. Call me when you get within firing range."

Fifteen minutes later the radio came alive. "Bakish Wind, Red Lion
Leader. Ten minutesfrom conventional shell range.

Manesh brought the microphone to his lips. "What about selfpropelled
rounds?"

"The village is too small, sir. Our rocket-assisted projectiles are not
that accurate. I'm afraid to over or undershoot and give them too much
warning. Prefer to use conventional rounds, over.

Manesh frowned. The tank commander was right. RAPS were inherently
inaccurate due to variations in the timing of firing and cutting off the
motor. A second or two of error in the projectile's ignition after
firing could mean the difference between hitting dead-on versus missing
by a mile or two.

"How far away from chemical shell range?"

"Chemical, Bakish?"

"Are you deaf, Red Lion? How far away are you from chemical shell
range?"

"Ahh ... also about ten minutes. But, in order to use chemical weapons,
we need direct approvalfrom Baghdad."

"As far as you're concerned, Red Lion, I am all the direct approval you
need! I am in charge of this section's security, and I'm giving you a
direct order to use all the chemical weapons at your disposal to
neutralize the village. Those Kurds are a threat to us, and the
villagers sympathize with them. That makes them our enemy. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Type of chemical shells?"

"Only blister agents, Bakish. Not very effectivefor immediate
neutralization.

"Use them first anyway, and follow them up with conventional shells."

"Acknowledged. Five minutes to engage.

Manesh replaced the microphone and turned next to Fassan-a young but
very bright radar technician, in Manesh's eyes.

"Has anything come through on the American channel?."

"Nothing yet, sir."

"Keep listening." Manesh shifted his gaze to the radar in front of
Fassan. The sweep line lazily passed across the screen without any
signal of enemy aircraft anywhere in a twenty-five-mile radius, at least
none flying above three hundred feet. The system was capable of
detecting craft as far as a hundred miles out, but the American's
powerful jamming had greatly reduced the radar's range. To keep the
enemy from firing one of their fancy radar-homing missiles at them,
Fassan limited himself to just one or two radar sweeps every few
minutes. To prevent the enemy from detecting a rhythm in the off-on
radar monitoring, Manesh had ordered his subordinate to change the time
lapse between sweeps and also change the duration of the sweeps.

"Bakish Wind, Red Lion Leader. Ready to commencefiring. Range two
thousand meters, over.

Manesh turned his head, reached over for the microphone, and brought it
to his lips. "Fire!"

From the rear seat of the weathered Rover four-wheel-drive vehicle,
Kevin snapped his head in the direction of the multiple blasts. He could
see some flashes on the horizon.

"Iraqi tanks," explained Khalela, sitting next to him. "They sound like
they are about two or three miles east of us."

Kevin thought about it for a moment as he did the math. "That's about
right. You think ..."

"Yes. They might be bombarding the village, but it shouldn't matter. All
the villagers are out of there. Hopefully the shelling won't destroy
everything."

"This is terrible, Khalela! What kind of government would punish one of
their own vill-" "The Iraqi government. But like I said, it won't matter
much. After living under such threats for centuries, the villagers have
adapted."

"Adapted? Adapted to what? Constant bombardment? How?"

"By living close to another village. Therefore, when one village becomes
the focus of too much unwanted attention, the villagers can easily seek
refuge in a nearby village. These people have learned to protect
themselves."

Kevin turned his head back in the direction of the tanks as the Kurdish
rebel accelerated the desert vehicle down the rugged, dusty road. He
tightened his fists. "We can't just sit here and let them get away with
that, Khalela. There must be something we can-"

Khalela brought both hands to his face. "Listen very carefully, for this
is something that you are not used to experiencing. In the West there
are laws. If you obey them, there is nothing you should worry about. If
you disobey them, you go to jail, and for the most part, the punishment
somehow fits the crime. But that is not the case over here. You do not
have to actually do anything and you could still be punished. Don't you
see? Why do you think the Kurds have been fighting for generations? In
this part of the world there are no real laws. Constitutions are just
pieces of paper created by temporary dictators who, after overthrowing
the previous government, create their own new set of rules to satisfy
their egos and lust for power. There are no elections, no real freedom,
no individual rights ... there is a true reign of terror controlled by
madmen like Saddam Hussein. Those villagers know this. They grew up
knowing this, but they have hope ... hope that one day Allah's mercy
will descend upon them and liberate them from their aggressors. But
until that glorious day comes, they must learn how to survive in a world
like this, and what they are doing right now is exactly that-surviving."

"How? Their village-"

"There is nothing in that village except for old houses that could be
rebuilt in weeks. The villagers knew that the moment we destroyed the
Hinds their village was doomed. All they could hope for was to be able
to make it out of there alive. In time they will come back and pick up
the pieces, but for now this is the only way. Let the Iraqi government
shell a few empty buildings in retaliation for the helicopters. Who
cares? In all of our hearts, we have won that battle." How? Kevin asked
himself. How can those eyes and angelic face be connected with such
harsh yet true words? And what kind of a world is this, anyway? Kevin
wondered as the shelling stopped.

"Is it over?"

:"Yes. Not a very big village."

Kevin stared into her mesmerizing eyes. She lowered her gaze and closed
them.

"Are you all right?"

Khalela didn't respond. She simply breathed deeply for several seconds
before bringing both hands to her face and rubbing her eyes.

Khalela? Are you-"

"I'm fine," she responded, leveling her stare with his again. Kevin
noticed tears in her eyes.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes. The shelling reminded me of something that happened a long time
ago."

Kevin tilted his head. "You want to talk about it?"

She shook her head. He continued to look into her light green eyes,
nearly losing himself in them.

"What?" she asked, a trace of curiosity dashing across her face. "Why
are you looking at me like that?"

"Where are we going, Khalela? Why is the Mossad here?"

She slowly shook her head. "I thought that we had an agree-"

"That's right, we had an agreement, but that was before yesterday's
attack. I almost got killed trying to help the Kurds. Granted, the only
reason I'm alive today's because of you and the Kurds, but right now it
just doesn't seem fair that I'm the only one in the group who has no
knowledge of what's happening. I know more about Abdul than I know about
you. And Abdul doesn't even speak English!"

Khalela turned away from him.

"Look, Khalela, I have already figured out that you're Mossad. There's
no sense in trying to pretend otherwise. What I want to know is where
we're headed to. I feel that my life's in as much danger as yours, and
that makes us partners, and where I come from, partners share things."

She refused to look at him. Kevin reached out and softly touched her
shoulder, turning her toward him. "Please?"

"Kevin, please do not make me do this. It is for your own protection.
The less you know the-"

"I've heard that before, and I don't buy it. We're both in on this. I
want to know where we're headed.

"All right. If you really want to know, we're headed for a place called
Allahbad Processing Complex."

"What's in there?"

"On the surface it appears that they manufacture dairy products, but we
have reason to believe the place is a nuclear weapons plant."

"Wh-what? Nuclear weapons?"

"Yes.. Are you satisfied now?"

"Uh-uh, not yet. What are we going to do in there?"

"Look, you said that all you wanted to know was where we were headed,
now I've told you-"

"You don't really expect me to just hear that and be satisfied, do you?

C'mon, what are we going to do once we get there?"

:We are going to do nothing."

"What do you mean nothing? What's the purpose-"

"Observe and report. That is the purpose of my mission."

"What's it that you want to report about? That they are manufac turing
nuclear weapons in there? I thought this type of reconnaissance should
be done by satellite and high altitude planes. Don't you people have
access-"

"That is the problem with U.S. Intelligence. Your people rely too much
on satellite photographs, with little regard to the fact that the enemy
knows about these satellites and can at times very cleverly disguise its
activities by letting you see what you expect to see."

"What are you talking about? You have no idea of how sophisticated our-"

"See what I mean? You are just as blind as the rest. Have you ever
wondered why the Mossad is so damned successful in all its missions?

Did you ever wonder why the Israeli armed forces always seem to be a
step ahead of the lot? Well, one of the reasons is because we do not
just rely on what the satellites and high-altitude reconnaissance craft
tell US." "Tell me. What is it that we're going to check at that factory
that our satellites couldn't pick up?"

"Do you know that Allahbad has never been bombed, not even during Desert
Storm? What does that tell you?"

Kevin exhaled. "Our people still think the place is a dairy factory."

"Do you see the reason for us going there now?"

"I still get the feeling there's something else you're not telling me."

She shook her head. "Kevin, oh, Kevin, you ask far too many questions.
Can't you be satisfied with what you already know?"

Kevin frowned, still suspicious. He decided to back off temporarily.
"For now, Khalela, for now."

"Are all of you Americans so damned curious?"

That drew a loud laugh from Kevin, startling the Kurdish driver up
front. Kevin brought both hands up in front of him, palms open and
facing her. "Okay, no more job-related questions. Let's talk about you
on a more personal level."

Khalela closed her eyes and sighed.

ALLAHBAD PROCESSING COMPLEX, South OF AN NAJAF, IRAQ. Day Three. 1345
Local Time.

For Major Mohammed Hassoud this was his second trip to the underground
laboratory. This time Dr. Radsul Sakkar had pressed the minus-five
button on the elevator. They were going to inspect the actual rockets
which, according to the sixty-year-old scientist, were due to be
completed in just a few more days. Hassoud shifted his gaze to Sakkar,
who rubbed his two-day-old stubble and then continued to make notes as
the elevator stopped. Sakkar had invited him to accompany him on an
inspection tour saying how ridiculous he found it that the head of
security was not allowed to inspect the entire facility. And Sakkar had
a point, Hassoud thought. It was frustrating trying to defend something
he'd never seen before, but on the other hand, Hassoud admitted, the
reason for such secrecy was to avoid giving out information to the enemy
if they took over the facility. In the event of an attack, Hassoud, with
the simple flip of a switch, could isolate the underground facility from
the rest of the world by disabling the elevator and automatically
sliding a thick steel plate into the elevator shaft. The underground
laboratory could survive independently for weeks ... or until help came.
In the meantime, the enemy would not be able to extract any information
from the surviving soldiers, even with drugs. The secret would be safe.

When the elevator's door opened, Hassoud finally realized the actual
size of the underground complex. He walked behind Sakkar out of the
elevator and into the colossal cylinder-shaped cave, which in Hassoud's
estimation dwarfed the warhead assembly room by at least ten times.

"How in the name of Allah ... ?"

"It is indeed impressive, ah, Major?"

"Impressive is too small a word to describe this, Doctor. This is indeed
a magnificent work of engineering. How long did it take ..

Hassoud stood in utter disbelief as Sakkar told him how it had taken
almost a decade of hard labor at the cost of hundreds of lives and
billions of petrodollars. The project had been kept secret by building
the underground facility at the same time the processing complex behind
the warehouse was built. The giant warehouse was nothing but a covered
excavation site. Once workers reached a certain depth-what eventually
became level minus five-the team built a concrete dome over the entire
site, and from then on they continued digging underground. The entire
project was invisible to anyone studying the progress of the complex's
construction from the air or by satellite.

The room was much longer than it was wide. Two rows of missiles extended
down the cave, one on each side, with a corridor in the middle that was
wide enough to land a jetliner. Hassoud took a look around himself as
they walked down the sparkling clean floors toward the first rocket on
their left.

"GOOD afternoon, Doctor Sakkar," said a female voice coming from e and a
thick reproo suit.

"Ali, Risha! How are you?"

"Fine, Doctor, thank you," she responded, lifting the heavy hood over
her head. Hassoud was captivated by intelligent blue eyes under a pair
of dark, thin brows. Her slim face, with a fine nose and full lips over
a pointy chin, was framed by shoulder-length light brown hair.

"Here, dear," Sakkar continued, handing her a progress report.

Please have it all filled out by the end of your shift. I'm particularly
interested in the progress to correct all hydraulics leaks before
deployment."

"Yes, Doctor, I will have it done with no problem, although you might
want to know that my crew has completed all systems checks on number
one. We will be ready for the warhead stage by tomorrow and for
deployment the day after."

"Risha, I could only wish the other crews had as good a leader as you.
Most of them had not even completed half of their checks as of this
morning."

"Sorry to hear that, Doctor. Would you like me to assist some of them?"

"Not yet. For now concentrate on getting number one into fully
operational stage. We'll talk after deployment. Thanks for the hard
work. Allah's spirit truly lives in your work."

"Thank you, Doctor." She placed the hood back on and walked away from
them and toward a tank with the word Hydrazine written across the side.

"An unusual job for such a beautiful woman, Doctor," Hassoud remarked as
they approached the next station.

"She is even more beautiful up here, Major," Sakkar responded, bringing
a finger to his temple. Sakkar then told him that Risha had finished
first in her physics class at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,
a very highly regarded American university. Hassoud was impressed and
proud. Sakkar kept on talking as they continued down the wide corridor.
He learned that the crew leaders wore the white fireproof gear. The ones
in yellow were also engineers but without the necessary experience to
work on their own yet. They were in training.

Sakkar handed a tally sheet to the crew leader of number two, who
without taking off his hood simply nodded and went back to work. They
continued down the long hall. Sakkar explained to Hassoud that the
workers in red were the technicians, doing the work the engineers
assigned to them. Sakkar told Hassoud his only concern at first had been
that since most of the technicians were from rural areas, he'd feared
that word would leak out about the project. That was the driving force
behind the rule prohibiting anyone from leaving the facility, even
during the height of the Gulf War. Most of the men and women down at
that level had not seen their relatives in years. A huge sacrifice,
reflected Hassoud, realizing that at least his soldiers did get to visit
their families once a month. But down there was a different world, he
admitted, finally understanding the reason why not a single one of his
soldiers was allowed to guard any of the underground levels. It was
obvious to Hassoud that they realistically had no need for security
forces. All the security they needed had already been provided through
dozens of feet of reinforced concrete isolating the laboratories from
the imperfect world outside. At the touch of a button, Sakkar or Hassoud
could temporarily cut off the outside world, and only Sakkar could
remove the steel plate when the danger was gone.

Hassoud nodded. The old doctor was right. This place had indeed been
built to withstand a direct hit from a nuclear warhead.

 AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Three. 1500
Local Time.

General Abunnasr Manesh threw the microphone down on the table and
cursed himself for being so slow. The entire village had been layered
with blister agents, followed with conventional shells, but the tank
commander reported no casualties. The place was deserted, as if the
villagers had known the tanks were coming. He'd known the villagers
would try to flee to nearby towns but didn't think they would do it so
fast. There was no sign of them anywhere, not even on the surrounding
roads. Additional tanks had blocked all roads to adjacent towns for the
last few hours, but so far nothing had been reported.

"Should I request them to go to the other villages and question the
people, sir?" asked Fassan.

"Ali ... no. Tell them to come home."

"Yes, sir."

Manesh leaned back in the swivel chair, quietly staring at the dark
radar screen. He frowned, disappointed that the Kurds had gotten away.
If this had occurred a few months earlier, he would have ordered the
tanks to blast surrounding villages until someone talked ... or everyone
was dead. But he couldn't afford that right now. His primary task was to
provide defense to the processing complex several miles to the south,
and those tanks were part of that defense. Manesh didn't want to spread
his forces too thin. Doing that would be a formula for disaster.

"I will be in my quarters, Fassan. Call me if anything comes up."

"Yes, General."

BLACK JETS NORTHERN SAUIDI ARABIA. Day Three. 2315 Local Time.

The dark, angular shape silently dashed through a moonless sky at 400
knots, carefully maintaining an altitude of 25,000 feet above the desert
sand. The aircraft, whose all-aluminum body was covered with platelike
radar absorbent material, accelerated to a maximum speed of 600 knots
with a barely audible increase in noise from the dual General Electric
augmented low-bypass-ratio turbofans.

From behind the gold-laminated canopy, optimized to lower radar returns
from the cockpit, Lieutenant Colonel Longhorn Kramer stared at the large
central CRT display, where most of the 52,000pound fighter's vital
statistics were constantly being displayed, something that still
bothered Kramer, who only felt comfortable after glancing at the analog
backup instrumentation and quickly comparing their readings with those
from the CRT display. Although the readings had always matched for over
two thousand hours of flying time, Kramer's peace of mind came only
after another successful check.

As he rapidly approached the salt marshes of southwestern Iraq, Kramer
increased forward pressure on the control stick to put the
radar-invisible Black Jet in a gradual descent. The first phase of the
destruction of Allahbad was not a bombing, run but a quiet
reconnaissance pass to check for hidden antiaircraft gear, which would
give the CIA story more credibility.

He checked the analog gauges again.

AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Three. 2320 Local
Time.

Shivering, General Abunnasr Manesh walked into the communications
bunker, letting the warmer air caress his face and neck. For some
reason, temperatures had dropped to the low forties tonight. He wasn't
usually bothered by it, but tonight he just couldn't fall asleep in the
cold. He could take the heat far better than cold weather.

"Cold night, General?" asked Fassan Tabriz from behind a large circular
radar screen.

"The sand," Manesh replied, "releases its heat too fast." He walked to
the back of the room, where two empty cots stood side by side. He lay on
one of them and propped a pillow under his head.

"Care for some tea or dates, General? There's also some fresh cream, and
the rest of last night's roasted lamb."

Manesh lifted his head and eyed the food on the table in the center of
the room. "No, thanks. I take it that all is clear, Fassan?"

"Yes, sir. No news from this end."

"Has Baghdad called?"

"No, sir. Everything is also quiet over there."

"Good. I hope it stays that way. I'm not in the mood for trouble
tonight, but do wake me if something comes up."

"Of course, sir."

Manesh closed his eyes and peacefully fell asleep.

SOUTHERN IRAQ.

Day Three. 2340 Local Time.

The night was star-filled, the air cold and dry. Crawling on his elbows,
Lieutenant Kevin Dalton dragged his bruised and sunburned body to the
top of a hill overlooking Allahbad Processing Complex and pressed the
rubber caps of Ishmael's night-vision binoculars against his eyes. From
Khalela, Kevin had learned that most of the Kurds' equipment came from
raiding Iraqi supply centers and trucks. The pair of Russian-made
binoculars in his hands, Kevin decided, were topnotch.

Sipwly, a chain-link fence came into focus as he rotated the adjusting
wheel in between the lenses. He moved the binoculars to the left and
followed the fence all the way to the far end of the complex. He stopped
and scanned the fence in the other direction until reaching a large
sliding gate, the only entrance into the compound that he could see. So
far he had counted four batteries of SAMS. Not bad for a facility this
size.

"Pretty dark out there, Kevin."

He lowered the binoculars and turned to Khalela, who had positioned
herself next to him and was already surveying the complex with her own
set of binoculars.

"Yes, but there seems to be a lot of activity." He continued to scan the
area. "Damn! Is that an electric fence?" Kevin noticed the thick cables
connected to the top of the fence at several spots along its length.

"Yes, it is. It is going to be difficult getting in there ... but not
impossible."

"What? You mean to tell me that the plan is to actually try to get
inside? I thought you said your mission was to observe and report."

Khalela smiled. "In all seriousness, what can you possibly observe and
report from here that you cannot simply read off a satellite
photographs"

Kevin frowned. "Guess you got a point ... but how in the hell are we
going to get past the guards and the fence?"

She smiled. "Trust me." She headed back down.

"Where are you going?"

"To talk to Ishmael. I will be right back."

Kevin brought the binoculars back up to his eyes and focused on the
trucks going in and out of the complex. For a few minutes, he followed
the vehicles as they drove into the complex and strained to see their
contents, but each truck drove into a large warehouselike building
roughly four hundred feet from the gate What? Kevin jumped when he felt
someone tapping him on the leg.

Startled, he turned around and looked up at a smiling Abdul, who was
obviously amused at having scared Kevin.

"Not very funny, Abdul."

The large Kurd motioned him to come back down. Kevin crawled away from
the edge and followed his Iranian friend.

As they reached the foot of the small hill, Abdul continued walking
toward Ishmael and the others stalking the road to the complex. He
pointed toward a small sand dune and briefly looked at Kevin. "Khalela."

Kevin looked in that direction and saw Khalela's head behind the sand
dune. He approached her and was surprised to see her dressed as an Iraqi
lieutenant. She was fastening her belt buckle. "Where did you-"

"From the soldiers who attacked the village. How do I look?"

Kevin smiled. Although the uniform was a couple of sizes too large,
Kevin decided that she looked great in just about anything she wore.

"Hmm? What do you think? Would I pass for an Iraqi officer?"

"A gorgeous one, yes."

She looked at him and smiled. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now do you mind telling me what it is that you're doing
dressed like that? I didn't know the Iraqis had any female officers."

She smiled once more. "They do not. I am not planning to be seen once I
get inside the perimeter. This is just in case someone spots me from far
away. That is why the uniform is so loose. Trust me, I know what I am
doing."

"I've heard that-"

"Pilot Dalton. Khalela. It is time!"

They turned around and saw Ishmael waving them over.

"Time for what?" Kevin asked.

"Time to go in."

"When? Now? How are you-"

"Trust me."

"Look, I'm getting tired of-"

"Please. It is better this way. This is what I do."

"In that case, I'm going in with you."

"You are crazy. That is not a good idea."

"Why? I can be of help in case-"

"Believe me. You will get us all killed. Look at yourself, look at your
skin. You wouldn't last a minute in there before someone spots you. And
besides, you don't speak the language. It's wiser for you to stay
behind."

Kevin frowned, accepting that Khalela was right. It wouldn't take much
for someone inside to figure out he didn't belong.

"But thank you for caring," she finally said before turning around and
walking toward Ishmael and the other Kurds.

Kevin remained behind, confused by his feelings for her.

She turned around. "Coming?"

He nodded and caught up to her.

"Do not worry. It is going to be all right."

He took her hand and held it tight. She squeezed his in response.

They let go of each other's hands as they approached the Kurdish group.
Kevin noted that Ishmael also wore an Iraqi officer's uniform.

"See you in a few hours, Kevin." She turned around and walked with
Ishmael toward the road, followed by three other rebels, who were still
dressed in their own clothes.

Kevin kneeled behind a small sand dune and watched them disappear around
a large rock by the road. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned
around. It was Abdul again.

Kevin raised both eyebrows and frowned. The large Kurd simply nodded.

The young Iraqi lieutenant sat impatiently on the passenger seat of the
supply truck headed for the complex. Bad roads and a flat tire had
delayed him an hour, something he knew the officer in charge would
report to his superior officer back at the port. The lieutenant was
certain that he would be reprimanded when he got back. There would be no
excuse in the eyes of his captain, the lieutenant knew. He should have
anticipated the poor road conditions and had the tires checked before
leaving the port of Al Faw by the gulf. But at the time he had decided
against it for fear of wasting precious time in getting his critical
cargo to its destination.

He glanced over at the old man at the wheel and decided that part of the
blame rested on the incompetent driver, who did not swerve the truck in
time to avoid a pothole. He frowned, perhaps he should tell his captain
this, but quickly decided against it since it had also been the
lieutenant's responsibility to select the driver.

He sighed, remembering how quickly he had agreed to let the old man
drive the truck over younger and probably more qualified drivers from
the approved pool. He had felt bad about the old man, smothered by a
crowd of young hungry drivers who had pushed him aside while each begged
the lieutenant to select him. The lieutenant shoved the young men to the
side and grabbed the old man who, startled, immediately thanked him and
Allah out loud, happy that he would now be able to buy a few hens or
maybe even a goat to feed his familywhat?

His thoughts were interrupted when he spotted what appeared to be an
Iraqi officer running away from something.

"Stop!" he commanded.

The old man stepped on the brakes and nearly lost control of the truck.

"For the love of Allah, old man! Where did you learn how to drive? I
said stop, not get us killed!"

The old man lowered his gaze and mumbled a few incoherent words. The
lieutenant shook his head and got out. "Wait here."

He unholstered a 9mm Makarov automatic pistol and ran toward the
approaching officer.

"Hold on! What is going on?"

"Kurds! They're after me! Three of them. They have automatic weapons!
Call your men out of the truck, I need help!"

He stopped and stared at the well-tanned and distinguished-looking
officer. There was an air of command and confidence behind the officer's
brown eyes. Before the lieutenant had a chance to react, he felt a cold
muzzle pressed against the back of his neck.

"One word and you're dead," said a female voice from behind. "Hand over
your weapon and start moving toward the truck."

The lieutenant gave the tanned officer the Makarov, turned around, and
stared into the most intriguing pair of light green eyes he'd ever seen.
The woman held an AK-47. There were several rebels surrounding the
truck. The old man's limp body was being dragged to the side.

"Butchers! All of you! He was just-" His words were cut short by a blade
pressed against his throat.

"This is your last warning. One more word and you're dead," said the
tanned soldier.

Khalela walked behind Ishmael, who held a knife to the officer's neck.

The moment they approached the truck, Ishmael pulled the lieutenant to
the side and pushed him toward the rebels, one of whom drove the butt of
his Kalashnikov against his face. The officer went limp.

Khalela went around the back and lifted the canvas flap hanging over the
rear of the truck. She jumped in and inspected the cargo-four large
steel spheres, each about six feet in diameter, were secured to the
floor of the truck by chains. She recognized the words Red-Fuming Nitric
Acid marked on the side of the two spheres to her right. The two on the
left were marked Hydrazine.

Rocket fuel.

Her fears had been confirmed. She walked outside and explained her plan
to Ishmael before crawling under the truck and tucking her slim body
between the main transaxle and the truck's underside.

Ishmael walked around to the driver's side, got in, started the truck,
and accelerated toward the complex.

After completing all system checks on the number one missile, under
direct orders from Dr. Sakkar, Risha put on the heavy hood and walked
toward her crew. The doctor, who stood in the middle of the corridor,
had just finished congratulating her for being a few hours ahead of an
already aggressive schedule. He now wanted her to deploy the missile so
that everyone else in the room would see how fast she had completed her
task. His reasoning, Risha knew, was that perhaps if they saw her
missile being deployed, they would work even harder.

Her crew, on hearing her directions, ran to their preassigned places
around the missile. Risha walked back and stood next to Dr. Sakkar. She
removed her hood and rested it on her hip. From where she stood, she
continued giving directions to her staff.

Suddenly, the colossal doors behind the missile slid open and a
battery-powered cart began to slowly move over the steel tracks,
deploying the rocket to its underground launchpad a mile away. The
assembly area was connected to a complex array of tunnels to transport,
set up, and service the rockets. Similar to the American mobile
underground tactical missiles, Risha reflected. The only difference
being that these missile silos had been built from below ground up to
ten feet under the surface. Seconds before ignition, a shaped charge
would blast upward through the last few feet of soil to open the way for
the rocket.

Risha noticed that nearly all the personnel on her side of the assembly
floor had stopped working and were staring at the missile, obviously not
believing their eyes. She smiled; the missile had not even disappeared
behind the doors when everyone was back at work, now moving with a
different intensity as if they were committed to have their own missile
deployed next. It was all a matter of competition and pride, she
admitted. The word would definitely get around to the other side of the
assembly floor about how she had completed her assignment first. Risha
smiled more broadly. She would not be surprised if some of the crews
completed their assignments before dawn.

Ishmael Barzani followed the three Iraqi guards to the back of the
truck, where one of them lifted the canvas flap and trained a flashlight
on the spheres.

"What are the contents?" one of them asked.

"I was simply ordered to escort the shipment and deliver it along with
these sealed papers," responded Ishmael.

The guard eyed the brown envelope in his hands. "What kept you?

You do realize that you're over an hour late."

"I was attacked by Kurdish rebels. Under the circumstances, I'm lucky to
have made it at all," he responded in an arrogant tone, realizing that
he had a higher rank than any of the guards. "Any more questions,
Sergeant? You do realize that now you are the one delaying the shipment,
don't you?"

The soldier backed down. One of the soldiers waved his right hand at a
guard by a booth next to the gate.

From the bottom of the truck, Khalela had held her breath during the
entire conversation as her greasy arms grew numb. She had no choice but
to hide. Even with a loose uniform, hair tucked under a cap, and now
grease on her face, she might still be recognized as a woman from close
up. Although her being there did add an element of risk to the mission,
again she had no other option. As intelligent and welleducated-by
Kurdish standards-as Ishmael was, in Khalela's eyes, he was still a
desert rebel without the basic technical background to know what to look
for. Khalela decided that she had to get firsthand information of the
activities inside Allahbad. Besides, she felt certain that Ishmael would
be under constant watch. She tensed as she heard Ishmael getting back in
the truck. The gate slid open. The Kurd steered the truck along the dark
and narrow stretch of road that connected the complex's entrance to the
warehouse. Just as they had planned, Ishmael slowed down to a near-halt
for a few seconds before continuing toward the large sliding door of the
warehouse.

Khalela rolled away from the road, quickly got to her feet, and walked
toward the side of the building, where she couldn't see any guards. She
reached the side of the warehouse uneventfully and approached a parking
area, where two dozen large trucks were parked side by side in two long
rows over the gravel. Quietly, she walked in between the first two
trucks of the row facing the back fence. She then carefully checked the
clearing between the back of the trucks and the fence and jumped into
the first truck. There were a number of boxes with labels in Russian.
She pulled out a knife and began opening them.

Ishmael drove the truck into the brightly lighted warehouse and slowly
followed another guard, who directed him to a spot next to several
crates. The Kurd jumped out and was immediately approached by two guards
and several men in green jumpsuits. He clenched his teeth in fear that
they might realize he was an impostor. The resulting bolt of pain from
his teeth made him blink just as one of the approaching officers began
to open his mouth.

"It's about time, Lieutenant!" snapped one of the guards. Ishmael
recognized the captain's bars on his broad shoulders.

"Sorry, Captain. I-" he started in an apologetic tone.

"Save it for your commanding officer, Lieutenant!" he fumed. "He will be
informed of your incompetence. This equipment should have been here over
an hour ago! Every second counts!"

Ishmael didn't respond. He grimaced and lowered his gaze, pretending to
be very apologetic-a role he played without much difficulty. The
throbbing in his mouth nearly numbed his senses.

The captain continued. "There is a guest room next to the warehouse,
where you will find refreshments and a toilet and sink. My guard here
will escort you. I'll expect you back in no longer than one hour. In the
event of an emergency, you will come back here immediately and report to
me. Those are the rules. Do you understand them, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. After that you must leave the complex at once and swear on
Allah's spirit that you will not discuss what you saw here tonight with
anyone else."

Ishmael watched him leave. The men in jumpsuits moved the canvas flap to
the side and started unloading the tanks, wheeling them to, a spot next
to what appeared to be a steel sliding door. The escort tapped him on
the shoulder and pointed toward the warehouse's exit.

Ishmael began to walk with the guard right behind them. As they left the
warehouse, a metallic noise made him turn around.

"Just keep walking, Lieutenant!" snapped the guard, but the Kurd had
already seen what he now knew they didn't want visitors to see. The
large metallic sliding doors revealed a compartment he recognized as an
elevator. He could see the elevator operator adjusting the level of the
elevator's floor with that of the warehouse.

It is true, Ishmael thought, as they left the warehouse's entrance
behind. The Iraqis had gone underground with their nuclear research
projects. Khalela had been right. Given the level of activity in the
warehouse-not counting the tight security-he could only guess at the
size of their underground facilities. It was by no means a small
operation.

Kevin Dalton continued scanning the large clearing in front of the
warehouse. He constantly turned the adjusting wheel between the lenses
as he moved the night-vision binoculars back and forth between the
chain-link fence and the warehouse, struggling to bring the greenish
images into focus. The binoculars' lenses, much thicker than regular
field binoculars, amplified the dim light that bounced off moving
objects, producing images with lighter shades of green against a
stationary, darker background. There he is, thought Kevin as he finally
managed to bring the green face of Ishmael into focus. A few minutes
earlier, he had followed Khalela from the side of the narrow road all
the way to the parking lot next to the warehouse, where the Mossad
operative had disappeared behind the trucks.

Kevin passed the binoculars to his larger friend and pointed at the
warehouse. Abdul brought the binoculars to his eyes, nodded, then gave
them back to Kevin, who continued to watch Ishmael move from the front
of the warehouse to a smaller building to their right.

Risha left the supply room and headed for the warehouse. She walked
slowly, peacefully admiring the blanket of stars overhead, a sight she
had not seen in weeks. She was grateful to Sakkar for allowing her the
simple pleasure of coming up to the surface. A reward for a job well
done, she recalled Sakkar telling her after he had asked her to go to
the surface and collect the shipping bills for the equipment received
from Baghdad. He also had asked her to stop at the warehouse on her way
back and check if the rocket fuel shipment had arrived yet. It had been
due in an hour ago. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, drawing in
the night's cold air several times, trying to clear her lungs from the
stagnant air down at level minus five. Although she knew that the best
of air-conditioners and air purifiers were used in ventilating the under
ground levels, in her mind Risha still felt she was not breathing pure,
natural air.

She opened her eyes and continued walking toward the warehouse's
entrance. Something caught her eye. She had seen a soldier jumping out
of the back of one of two dozen trucks parked on the gravel lot and
quickly jumping into the back of an adjacent one. Risha saw a knife
clutched in the soldier's hand.

she continued to walk along the side of the warehouse for a few more
seconds. She noticed two uniformed men approaching. She recognized one
of them.

Ishmael was standing with an Iraqi guard when a woman wearing a white
jumpsuit approached them.

"Hello, Risha," said the guard.

Risha smiled.

"I have not seen you in months. How are things?"

"Everything is fine, thanks. I just came to pick up a few things for the
doctor and inspect a new shipment due to arrive at any minute. I
couldn't help noticing a soldier jumping in and out of supply trucks
back there. Is everything all right?"

Ishmael's heart began pounding as he saw the guard's face harden, "No
one is allowed inside those trucks!" shouted the guard. "Risha, you get
back to the warehouse. Lieutenant, you come with me."

Kevin Dalton saw Ishmael and the guard stop to talk to someone in a
white jumpsuit. After a few seconds, the one in the jumpsuit continued
toward the entrance to the warehouse, while Ishmael and the guard walked
toward the-Oh, shit. They're headed for the parking lot!

Khalela, get out of there!

Then he heard a quiet sound overhead. Kevin was not sure exactly what it
was at first, but it definitely came from above. He quickly lay on his
back and trained the binoculars at the sky. That sound, he thought. I've
heard it before somewhere.

The sky was clear, the night moonless. Kevin continued to search but saw
nothing. The sound grew slightly louder. Jet engines, he decided as his
trained ears discerned the noise. There was something peculiar about the
sound, almost as if it were passing through some kind of muffler or
other device designed to reduce engine noise. If his ears were not
playing tricks on him, his trained senses told him that the aircraft
should be a few thousand feet away; it should definitely be visible with
his binoculars, yet Kevin saw nothing.

Kevin rolled onto his belly and trained the binoculars back on the
complex: Ishmael and the guard had already disappeared behind the
trucks. Damn!

He cursed at himself for allowing that noise-whatever it was-to distract
him. Khalela, where in the world are you? he thought as he frantically
scanned the complex in vain.

Khalela Yishaid smiled widely when she pulled out a radiationresistant
suit from one of the boxes. In adjacent boxes she had already found
hoods, gloves, and booties. It's true, she thought. The Iraqis are in
the nuclear business. That, combined with the information the Kurd
Ishmael had provided from the map he'd found a few days before, told
Khalela everything she needed to know.

"Stay where you are!" a voice came from the rear of the truck.

Khalela froze.

"Now, slowly turn around."

She did, and to her surprise, she stared at a short, bearded guard
holding an AK-47. Ishmael stood next to him, also holding a Kalashnikov
in her direction. Khalela went through her options. She could easily
signal the Kurd to kill the guard, but would that be the best way to
play this out? What other options did she have? Dammit. "Now, very
slowly, set your weapon on the floor."

Khalela complied and shifted her gaze back and forth between Ishmael and
the guard. Swiftly, the Kurd smashed the AK-47's butt against the side
of the guard's head. The Iraqi soldier dropped.

"Lift him in here, quick," Khalela said as she approached Ishmael and
helped him pull the guard's limp body inside the truck. The Kurd pulled
out a knife and sliced the unconscious man's throat. Khalela looked
away, wondering who was more barbaric.

"You were right, Khalela," Ishmael commented with a wide grin. "There's
an underground complex here. I saw a large service elevator in the
warehouse."

Khalela stared at the Kurd and his repulsive teeth. With the warehouse
being one story, the elevator could only go one way: down.

"What do we do next?" Ishmael asked.

As her mind searched for the right answer, her ears detected a faint jet
engine noise in the distance.

Checking the time, Colonel Longhorn Kramer eased back his throttles to
sixty percent as he approached Allahbad at five thousand feet. The
infrared lenses of a KIH- II satellite were photographing the entire
region at that precise moment.

He quickly checked his analog instrumentation again before putting his
plane in a shallow climb and pressing the chaff-dispensing button on his
control stick for what he estimated was a half second. A small door
underneath the flat underside of the Black Jet slid back and released
dozens of inch-long slender strips of a plastic fiber material coated
with a thin metallic film. The strips had a low enough density to allow
them to float in midair as Kramer's F-117A continued its southern
trajectory.

Kramer pumped chaff nine more times before turning his Black Jet toward
the Saudi border.

"In the name of Allah! General, General! Hurry!"

Manesh jumped up from the cot and raced to where Fassan sat, then froze
when he saw the multiple targets on the radar screen.

"How many?"

"Ah ... looks like ... ten?"

"Yes, Fassan! Ten targets! Were you asleep?"

"No, General. They just appeared on my screen. One minute everything was
quiet, then within a few seconds, the entire radar screen lit with
targets!"

"Range and speed?"

"Fifty miles, speed ... three hundred knots ... and rapidly slowing
down, sir."

"What?"

"They're down to ... two hundred knots ... one hundred fifty ... sir, it
doesn't make sense."

"Let's not take any chances. Warn Allahbad. Tell them there is an air
strike on the way!"

Manesh raced out of the communications bunker.

Both Kevin and Abdul jumped back when the entire complex came alive.
Alarms blared and dozens of doors swung open on the side of the
warehouse, exposing several Russian-made self-propelled Shilka
antiaircraft gun systems. He counted six of the deadly accurate Shilkas
on this side of the complex alone. He could only surmise that an equal
number guarded the other side. Several doors down along the same side of
the complex, Kevin saw SA-6 surface-to-air missiles, which were also
deployed on motorized vehicles, three missiles per self-propelled unit.
Guards ran out of several buildings and approached the Shilkas and SAM
antiaircraft systems. Other soldiers manned the SAM systems by the
fence.

Kevin was surprised at the sense of purpose with which every soldier
moved. Although there was a lot of activity, there weren't any signs of
havoc, only a well-rehearsed emergency drill. In less than a minute, all
personnel appeared to have reached their posts. Then just as suddenly as
it had started, all the alarms went silent and the entire complex went
dark.

Kevin blinked several times, trying to adjust his vision. Even with the
binoculars, he still had a hard time seeing much.

Ishmael Barzani made it back to the warehouse right before the doors
were closed. Inside, everyone was ordered to the large service elevator
on the right side of the room. He spotted the woman in the white
jumpsuit running toward the elevators. He caught up with her.

"Where ... are we going?" Ishmael asked as they raced across the
concrete floor.

"Down ... where it is safe," Risha responded. "Don't worry, it will be
all right ... as long as we can ... make it before ... they block the
elevator shaft."

"What are you talking about?" the Kurd asked, slowing down.

Before Risha could respond, the elevator door slid closed, disregarding
the screams of dozens of workers who banged their hands against the
doors.

"What is the matter now?"

"It's too late!" responded Risha.

"Too late? Too late for what?"

"The elevator shaft! It's been blocked. We're stuck up here."

"What do you mean stuck up here? What's down there?"

"The complex, the labs. It's all isolated from the outside world except
for the elevator, which is automatically shut off and the shaft blocked
after the alarms go off."

"So what happens next?" the Kurd asked, amazed that she would volunteer
so much information to a stranger. But then again, reasoned Ishmael, he
did wear the uniform of an Iraqi officer. In her eyes, he was a friend.

"We wait. We pray to Allah and wait," Risha responded.

"Is there a bomb shelter around to-"

"No. The only personnel that's usually up here are soldiers, but
tonight's shipment was too big so we had to get people from level minus
one to help."

This was getting better every second, Ishmael thought sarcastically. "So
we are just going to sit here and wait. This seems like the ideal target
for an air strike."

"We don't have a choice. The warehouse's doors are temporarily sealed
once the locking mechanism engages." Risha shifted her gaze to the
workers still banging their fists against the elevator doors. "See, they
know we're trapped."

Ishmael sighed and sat down, resting his back against the tire of a
truck. "I guess now we wait."

General Manesh applied throttle and taxied his Mig-29 out of the bunker.
One minute later he was airborne.

"Talk to me, Fassan!" he shouted into the radio when he had left the
runway, prompting the ground control intercept radar controller to give
him a vector to the intruders.

"A h ... sir?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"They are gone, sir.

"They are what?"

"Gone, sir. They stopped moving altogether and slowly faded away one by
one. My radar is clean, sir.

"So is mine, Fassan. What in the hell do you think happened?

Decoys?"

"My only guess is chaff or some form of decoy drone, sir.

"Could be, but from where?"

"That is what has me baffled, sir. I counted ten targets and all ten
slowed down to a halt and vanished just like chaffwould, but there was
no trace of any craft before or after that. Perhaps it was one of those
American stealth fighters."

"Well, I am not taking any chances. Radio south and maintain red alert
until further notice," Manesh said, referring to Allahbad. The general
also felt that the Allies had just flown one or more of their stealth
jets over the region. It was the only explanation that made any sense to
him.

"Yes, sir!"

Kevin waited for something to happen, but after several minutes the
lights in the compound came back on. Soldiers drove the antiaircraft
equipment back into the building and the doors closed.

He lowered the binoculars and frowned. There was still no sign of
Khalela.

"I think everything is going to be fine, Lieutenant," said the captain
as he approached them. The large Iraqi glanced at Risha and motioned her
to go join the other technicians gathered by the elevator doors. She
complied.

"Don't tell me this was all just a drill," Ishmael said, getting up.

"No, Lieutenant. This was the real thing, but the threat is gone
folonow. I don't have any more details than that."

"All right. When will I be allowed to leave?"

"As soon as the people downstairs disengage the locking mechanism. In
the meantime, the technicians will continue to unload your cargo. Where
is the guard that escorted you to the guest quarters?"

Ishmael forced himself to remain calm. "When the alarms began to blare,
he ordered me back here. He ran the other way. I guess he's outside
somewhere."

The captain thought about it for a moment before nodding and walking
away.

Fifteen minutes later, Ishmael put the truck in gear and made a U-turn
under the direction of a guard. The truck momentarily accelerated down
the narrow road before Ishmael briefly flashed the lights off and on
twice. He slowed down for a second and a figure emerged from the side of
the road, jumped to the passenger side, and climbed inside. There was a
three-foot-deep space in between the back of the seat and the rear wall
of the truck. Khalela quickly hid there as Ishmael drove toward the gate
a few hundred feet away.

"You were right, Khalela," Ishmael said in a low voice, quickly telling
her what Risha had told him about the elevator shaft plate and the
underground labs.

A minute later, he reached the gate. He watched one guard wave at
another inside the booth. The gate slowly began to open.

It suddenly stopped.

Ishmael frowned and glanced at the guard inside the booth. He was
talking on the telephone. He hung up and Ishmael immediately noticed the
gate closing.

"What is the matter, Isha?"

He told her as he clutched the Kalashnikov. From the back, he felt
Khalela placing a hand on the weapon.

"Wait. It might be nothing of importance." just crash through the gate,"
he said. "My people will cover us once we're-"

"Good evening, Lieutenant."

Ishmael snapped his head to the right and stared at a very hairy
officer. He was surrounded by a half dozen armed soldiers, including the
captain he'd met at the warehouse.

"I'm Major Mohammed Hassoud, head of security of this complex."

"Good evening, Major. How can I be of service to you tonight?"

"Well, Lieutenant, why don't you step outside for a minute? There is
something I must show you."

Ishmael felt a knot in his stomach as he pulled down on the handle and
pushed the door open. His gums began to throb.

"Yes, Major?"

"See, Lieutenant, I have a minor problem and need your help to clear it
up. I'm sure it's just miscommunication between the coast and US."

Silently praying to Allah, Ishmael did his best to remain calm and in
control. He could not allow them to see an ounce of fear.

"What is this problem, Major?"

"Well, you were due to arrive here at a certain hour. When you didn't, I
had one of my men call the coast and nd out the time that you had left
to see if I should send a search party after you. The response I got
before the alarms went off was that Lieutenant Zahed Maustakk left with
an older driver, an old man, at noon today. Now, Lieutenant, first of
all, the name on your uniform says Yaiseer, and second you are alone.
Now would you mind telling me what is going on and where Lieutenant
maustakk and the old man are?"

Ishmael's mind was racing. "There must be some misunderstanding, Major.
You must have mistaken my truck with someone else's."

"No, I don't think I have, Lieutenant whoever-you-are. Because, you see,
after everything settled down, I did a little checking with the bases
around the area and asked them to track down a Lieutenant Yaiseer. And
would you believe what they told me?"

Ishmael felt nauseated when he detected a touch of sarcasm in the
major's tone. "What, Major? What did they tell you?" he said, barely
managing to control his voice.

"Well, they told me that Lieutenant Yaiseer was one of the officers that
perished during a Kurd attack on a village south of here earlier today.
Yaiseer, along with the other soldiers, were found naked in the center
of the deserted village. So, you're not Zahed and you're not Yaiseer.
Who in the hell are you? And how did you get that uniform?"

Ishmael lowered his gaze.

Kevin put down the binoculars in utter disbelief. First he had seen
Ishmael talking to a group of soldiers by the gate. Then two soldiers
jumped in the truck, and seconds later Khalela climbed down with her
hands above her head. The cold reality of seeing Khalela and Ishmael
captured left him speechless.

He turned to Abdul. The large Kurd frowned and slowly shook his head.

Kevin ran the tip of his right thumb across his neck and looked at Abdul
for a response.

Abdul closed his eyes and nodded.

"Oh, God ..."

THE WHITE HOUSE.

Day Three. 1700 Local Time.

CIA Director Craig Kettler's face turned in the direction of President
Bill Clinton as he explained the satellite images collected by the
infrared cameras of a KH-11, which were spread over the president's
desk.

"What's most interesting of all, Mr. President, is the amount of
hardware defending the place, far surpassing Bourdeaux's initial
estimates. I mean, this place is better guarded than anything else
inside Iraq, including Baghdad."

The president silently inspected the images with half-closed eyes. To
his far right, his defense secretary looked at the photos from a
distance. He had already scrutinized them at the NPIC half an hour
earlier and awl had wasted no time in giving the president his
recommendation: blast the facility off the map. The CIA director had
also recommended an immediate air strike.

Clinton wet his lips, laying an index finger across his chin while
staring into the distance. All the information was there. All the
players were in agreement as to what should be done, even his secretary
of state, who was still meeting with Tariq Aziz. The Geneva talks so far
had proven to be just as useless as the ones attended by former
Secretary of State James Baker prior to Desert Storm.

The president reached for the side of his desk, where a white sheet of
paper with the presidential seal across the top contained an executive
order to carry out the attack on Allahbad. In unison, Defense and
Intelligence both pulled out pens and handed them to the president, who
gave them a faint smile before pulling his own pen out of his pocket and
signing the order.

ALLAHBAD PROCESSING COMPLEX, South OF AN NAJAF, IRAQ. Day Four. 0 1 00
Local Time.

Ishmael Barzani walked into the interrogating room and immediately
looked for Khalela, but all he saw was the man that called himself Major
Hassoud and five guards. Ishmael noticed the major's scarred nose and
cheeks surrounded by an unruly mess of hair.

"Welcome, my friend," Hassoud said in an icy tone.

Ishmael was brought up to him. His hands were tied behind his back.

"Tonight you will tell us everything we want to know."

Ishmael spat on his face.

Hassoud slowly wiped the saliva off his beard with a sleeve. "That was
not a very smart thing to do, my friend ... or what should I call you?"

Ishmael stared him in the eye with fierce conviction, but noted that
Hassoud didn't flinch at his gaze. He appeared bored, as if he was doing
this because he didn't have anything better to do.

"Your attitude amuses me, my friend. Guards, please? Let us show our
Kurdish friend exactly how is it that we are going to persuade him to
tell us everything we want to know."

Ishmael watched in silence as a guard brought in a hen and walked with
it over to a large barrel in the center of the room.

"Bring him closer. I do not want him to miss any part of the show."

A guard jammed the barrel of his pistol against Ishmael's back and
pushed him forward. He noticed the crystal-clear liquid inside the
barrel and thought they were going to electrocute the hen, but he could
not see any wires or generator.

The hen was hung from its legs and slowly lowered over the barrel by a
pulley system on the ceiling, which Ishmael estimated to be over twenty
feet high.

He blinked in surprise when the relatively quiet hen went berserk and
viciously flapped its wings the moment its head came in contact with the
liquid, which started bubbling. It lasted maybe fifteen seconds. The
liquid became blood-red.

When Hassoud lifted the hen back up, there was nothing left of its head
except part of the bone structure. The rest had been dissolved away by
the liquid.

"Just one of the many products we manufacture at Allahbad in addition to
our line of dairy products, my friend. Believe me when I tell you that
you will talk. One way or another, you will tell me who you are and what
you are doing here. Frankly, I don't care how much pain you're willing
to take before you talk. I hope a lot. It always gives me great pleasure
to inflict pain on Kurdish pigs."

Hassoud brushed the hair from his forehead and Ishmael suddenly realized
the reason for the major's untamed beard. Hassoud's face had been
disfigured.

"Some of your Kurdish friends did this to me long ago," Hassoud said
after Ishmael had gotten a good look at his forehead. "Some of you
bastards slowly carved my face and the rest of my body before I was
rescued by my government. I thought you might want to know that before I
start working on you. Only in this case don't expect your people to come
rescue you."

Ishmael closed his eyes and silently prayed to Allah to give him the
strength to endure the punishment he was about to receive.

BAGHDAD. Day Four. 0120 Local Time.

For Saddam Hussein the day had been a mixture of good and bad news.
Although he had lost some helicopters, he considered that insignificant
when compared to the American fighters and helicopters his own people
had destroyed. Although he had been stern to General Manesh, deep inside
Saddam knew the recently promoted general was carrying out his orders
without question. Manesh's blazingly fast reaction when an American jet
flew over Allahbad a couple of hours before had been particularly
excellent.

Allahbad.

Half-naked, sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed in one of his
bunkers, the Iraqi leader lit up a cigar and took a long draw, slowly
exhaling through his nostrils. A Syrian woman, one of Saddam's personal
whores, stirred naked, half-asleep, under the covers. The Iraqi leader
patted her buttocks, and she mumbled something before turning over and
going back to sleep.

Saddam smiled, but not because of the woman. He cared for her as much as
he would for a stray dog. At any moment he could reach for the Makarov
in the holster by his feet, blow her brains out, and then go eat a big
breakfast. But he wouldn't. The tall Syrian woman could satisfy him like
no one else.

The reason for his smile was that as of an hour ago, just as he'd begun
to undress the whore, Iraq had become the world's newest nuclear power.
At this very moment, he had the power to blow Tel Aviv off the face of
the earth, but he wouldn't dare do it just yet. Not while he had only
one missile ready. He would wait for the right time. In another
twenty-four hours, he should be able to hit a few targets at will. In a
matter of days, his country would have a total of thirty nuclear
warheads, each mounted on its own booster, which could carry it up to a
thousand miles away.

Then, Mr. Bill Clinton, the Middle East will be mine, and soon after
that, you will experience the horror of an atomic explosion in your
beloved America.

DIFFERENCES OF OPINION SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI
BORDER. Day Four. 0745 Local Time.

With the early morning sun behind him, CIA officer Robert Bourdeaux
walked across the warm tarmac, past the camouflage canopy shielding the
F-117A fighter that had arrived the night before, and approached the
Gulfstream IV taxiing to a halt on the ramp next to the mess tent.
Bourdeaux watched the ground crew bring a ladder up to the VIP transport
as the door was pushed open from the inside.

To Bourdeau 's surprise, the first three people who walked down the
steps held a video camera and some other gear. They reached the bottom
of the steps. Two moved to the side and fumbled with a few switches for
a couple of seconds. The third remained by the steps. Then the one
holding the camera counted from five to one with the fingers of his
right hand.

Bourdeaux approached them.

The one by the steps was the reporter. Bourdeaux heard him state that
they had just arrived at an American air base, where a plan was being
put in place to organize an air strike against a highly strategic
complex in southern Iraq. % Bourdeaux watched in total disbelief as
General Kenneth Draper, wearing a perfectly starched set of
desert-camouflage fatigues and a cap, slowly walked down the stairs and
waved at the camera. The reporter asked him a few questions and Draper
responded confidently to each one. It was obvious to Bourdeaux that the
interview was well rehearsed.

Draper commented on how easy it had been for an F-117A stealth fighter
to fly right over the enemy and their batteries of antiaircraft guns and
missiles totally undetected, proving once more that the Black Jet was
the most advanced stealth fighter in the world. He also mentioned that
his presence there was that of an observer, and that the real work was
being conducted by a joint CIA-Navy-Air Force command.

Draper finally approached Bourdeaux as the camera crew walked away with
their gear. A half dozen men, also dressed in impeccablelooking
fatigues, walked down the stairs carrying suitcases and boxeswhat
Bourdeaux guessed had to be the general's collection of personal items.

"Hello, Mr. Bourdeaux. How are things?"

"Fine, General. Thank you. I notice that you brought a camera crew. I
had already arranged for a CNN crew to cover the event. They will arrive
later on this morning."

Draper looked both ways before lowering his voice a few decibels.
"Listen. Between you and me, I doubt General Marshall-or the president,
for that matter-would approve of that. It's probably in your best
interest to call them off. I brought along a combat camera crew approved
by CENTAF to cover the event. Afterward, you and I will have full
control of the editing before releasing this to the press."

"Ah ... sure, General. No problem. I'll call them off," Bourdeaux said,
staring directly into the eyes of the Silver Rat. in the first minute of
his stay, Draper had already politely squashed Bourdeaux's own plan to
cover the event. Bourdeaux felt a headache coming on as he tightened his
fists. This entire thing has gotten off to a bad start, he thought. He
could only hope it didn't get any worse.

"Now if you excuse me, I had a long flight and would like to freshen up.
Did you get a chance to get me a tent?"

"Ah, yes, General. Right this way."

They walked in silence past the F-117A parked next to several F- 15
Eagles. Bourdeaux stopped briefly while Draper glanced at the stealth
fighter before continuing down the tarmac. They reached Draper's tent a
moment later. Draper's staff waited by the entrance. The general pointed
at one of them: a captain. Draper's face suddenly became rock hard.

"You.

"Yes, sir?"

"I need to have a private lunch for three in my tent at noon. Make it
happen. Now go." %

"Yes sir!"

Bourdeaux blinked twice in surprise as the captain set a large
footlocker on the ground, did an about-face and took off. Draper looked
at Bourdeaux. The general's face became soft and pleasant again.

"I hope I don't inconvenience you by asking you to join me for lunch,
Mr. Bourdeaux."

Bourdeaux couldn't believe this guy. "Sure, General. No problem."

"Great. Oh, if you could, could you bring Colonel Peter Haiston along?

The word I've got at CENTAF is that he's the man who really makes things
happen around here. I'd like to meet him since he's going to be handling
a large portion of the attack. Now, I'm beat. I need a nap. Good-bye,
Mr. Bourdeaux. See you at lunch." Draper turned around and went inside,
followed by his staff.

Bourdeaux stood speechlessly outside the tent. Slowly, he walked away.

THE WHITE HOUSE. Day Four. 0030 Local Time.

Working alone inside the Oval office, President Clinton finished his
daily domestic agenda and turned his attention to the latest reports on
Allahbad that had arrived in the past hour.

The faxed reports from Draper and also from Bourdeaux indicated that,
just as the CIA director had pointed out, the recon mission had been
highly successful in showing the unusually high number of soldiers and
antiaircraft equipment inside the complex.

Another report from the defense secretary and from General Roy Marshall
gave last-minute details of how the operation would be carried out: a
combined Navy-Air Force effort.

Clinton dropped his eyelids halfway at the remembrance of Saddam
Hussein's propaganda show on TV the other night. Now, Mr. Saddam
Hussein, it's my turn.

USS RANGER. EIGHTY MILES NORTH OF BAHRAIN, PERSIAN GULF. Day Four. 0845
Local Time.

Lieutenant Chico Delgado climbed up the ladder resting against the side
of his F-14A Tomcat and agilely hopped into the rear seat of the
cockpit.

"Good morning, sir."

"Hello, Chico," Commander John Mcdeere said from the front.

Each went through his own systems checklist in silence for a few
additional minutes.

"Good alignment, select missile prep," Delgado finally said over the ICS
as he reached the bottom of his list.

"We're going on a tough mission here. Everything sweet back there?"

Mcdeere snapped impatiently.

"Radar's sweet, no degrades worth mentioning and RHAW gear checks out,"
answered Delgado, informing his CO that the radar humming and warning
gear was fully operational.

"Did you run a full built-in test?" Mcdeere asked curtly, implying that
Delgado hadn't performed the BIT, a test where the Tomcat's computers
automatically execute a algorithm that performs a full systems check and
reports any problems.

"Ali, yes, sir."

"Why don't you run it again, just to be sure."

Delgado tightened his fists. "Yes, sir!"

Good crew coordination was paramount to a successful mission, and that
meant good rapport between the RIO and the pilot. Mcdeere had
accomplished the exact opposite. As Delgado went down the checklist
again, he silently cursed his CO, who by now had been promoted to the
top of another list: Delgado's shit list. He resented the freckle-faced
commander not only for having been so hard on Kevin but also because all
the bastard cared about was his own career and how good he looked. It
struck Delgado as amusing that Mcdeere had flown only a few sorties
during the first few days of their tour, selecting missions that had the
best chance of encountering Migs. After it became evident that dogfights
would not be as common as everyone had thought, due to the lack of Iraqi
airborne fighters in the no-fly zone, Mcdeere had quietly reverted to
his role as the squadron's CO, telling everyone that he had to remain
aboard the carrier to cover the "big picture" of coordinating sorties.
However, the moment the Ranger received orders from CENTAF to send a
squadron of F-14s to provide escort for a special decoy bombing mission
alongside the famous F-117 Black Jet, the CO had quickly nominated
himself strike lead for the mission.

Damn, you're an asshole, John Medeere! Delgado thought.

Ten minutes later, the fighter hurtled off the carrier, quickly joined
overhead by three others. The Tomcats turned to a northerly heading.

ALLAHBAD PROCESSING COMPLEX, SOUTH OF AN NAJAF, IRAQ. Day Four. 1000
Local Time.

For Khalela Yishaid, the nightmare had just begun. She had not seen
Ishmael Barzani since they had been taken to separate rooms the night
before, and only now when she was brought into the interrogation room
did she realize the brutal punishment her Kurdish friend had suffered.

She froze in horror at the sight of Ishmael, or what was left of him,
hanging by the hands from the ceiling in the center of the large, square
room. Half his body was immersed in a barrel filled with a dark liquid.
From where she stood, she couldn't see if he was breathing or not.

"He was very tough, but in the end he lost," said Major Mohammed Hassoud
from one end of a wooden table on the right side of the windowless room.
She noticed the leather straps on the rough surface. "Lift him up."

Khalela felt bile rushing up her throat when she saw that the lower
section of Ishmael's body was gone. She leaned over and vomited on the
concrete floor. The soldiers put Ishmael's remains in a plastic bag and
carried them out of the room.

"Hydrochloric acid. It eats down to the bone."

With tears in her eyes, Khalela managed to get to her feet and looked
contemptuously at Hassoud.

"It is indeed amusing. You see, when we first brought him in here, he
spat in my face when I asked him his name. His stare was as defiant as
yours is now. He became a little more agreeable after his toes were in
the chemical. By the time he was up to his ankles in it, he was telling
me everything I wanted to know. When the liquid reached his knees, he
begged me to put a bullet through his head. He finally passed out from
the pain when we immersed him down to his waist. I guess he died soon
after that."

Khalela noticed she was quivering, but it wasn't fear. It was anger.

"You see, I know about your friends out there. I know your name is
Khalela. I know about someone named Dalton, an American pilot shot down
by our superior Air Force. I know about Abdul and the thirty other
Kurdish guerrillas who butchered our soldiers in a village south of
here. A team is on the way to wipe out your friends. In another hour,
you will be all alone."

Khalela blinked twice in silent astonishment, trying to conceive of the
kind of pain that had to be inflicted on Ishmael for Hassoud to know
those things.

"So, my dear Khalela, are you going to force us to do something like
that to you, or are you going to be a little more cooperative than your
friend?"

She didn't respond, "Very well, then. Take off your clothes." Hassoud's
hairy face seemed hard, cruel, and pitiless.

She studied the scarred nose and cheeks, gazed into his eyes. "Why don't
you come and try to take them off yourself, you ugly butcher?"

There was silence. She noticed all five guards in the room staring at
Hassoud.

Hassoud tilted his head and began to laugh. He was soon joined by the
guards, who laughed even harder. A few moments later, he raised his
hand.

"Enough!" Hassoud shouted. The laughter hatted. Hassoud, his head still
lifted high, looked condescendingly down at Khalela. "Is ugly the only
word that comes to mind when you look at me? Perhaps you need to see
more of me, Khalela."

Slowly, the Iraqi major unbuttoned the top of his uniform and showed her
his chest. Khalela gasped. The man was disfigured.

"I have been given the face and the body of a devil, my dear friend.

The Kurds did this to me." He buttoned up the shirt. "That is enough of
the show. You and you, rip off her clothes!"

Instinctively, Khalela dropped to a crouch and threw a side kick at the
guard on her right. Her heel landed in his groin. The guard folded over
and silently rolled away. The other three guards trained their weapons
on her, but Hassoud lifted his right hand, palm open. They lowered the
weapons.

The second guard also dropped to a crouch and smiled. Khalela tried a
knife hand to the throat but the guard blocked it and slapped her across
the face with the back of his hand. The blow sent her crashing against
the wall.

She landed on the floor, and before she could react two other guards had
her pinned down. One held her arms, the other her legs, and a third
guard tore off the shirt of her camouflage fatigues before ripping the
white T-shirt in half. One of the guards grabbed both breasts and
squeezed them hard. A second reached for her pants.

"Stop!" commanded Hassoud. "Bring her over here!"

The guards laid her face up on the wooden table and strapped her wrists
and ankles to the sides. Hassoud came around. "You're indeed a very
attractive woman. What a waste." He pulled out a knife and slowly moved
the edge up and down her torso.

Khalela wished they would just get it over with. The mental anguish of
waiting was probably worse than the physical act itself. As she felt the
cold edge making its way around her breasts, Khalela saw her sister. Saw
the Arabs in a circle pushing her around. She heard Suleima's scream.
Heard her shouts. Oh, God, please. No, please, stop!

Hassoud lowered the knife and tucked it in between her body and the
pants she still wore. Then in one swift move, he yanked the knife
upward, ripping her pants. She kept her eyes closed and turned her head.
Hassoud's hand softly stroked the inside of her thighs. She heard the
other soldiers break into a laugh when Hassoud moved his hand up until
it came in contact with her pubic hair, slowly inching a finger inside
her dry vagina. She shivered and clenched her teeth.

It's going to happen now, she thought. It'll soon be over with.

The hand was now softly massaging her stomach) fingers circling around
her belly button. It moved to her breasts, caressing them for a few
seconds. Then it was gone. Khalela waited a few extra moments before
opening her eyes and staring at Hassoud. The other soldiers were also
looking down. Their intentions were clear.

"What a waste, Khalela. What a waste indeed. Bring the machine," she
heard Hassoud order. The soldiers did not respond right away.

"Are you deaf" Hassoud snapped. "Get me the machine, now!"

The soldiers quickly left the room.

"We will not kill you as quickly, Khalela. Ishmael was a savage; he
deserved a savage treatment. You and I are not savages. We are civilized
and should behave as such. All we want to know is where you come from
and what you were doing with the Kurds. Poor Ishmael passed out before
he could tell us."

She didn't respond.

"Tell us what government you work for!"

Khalela simply stared into Hassoud's eyes.

"As you wish. But know this, you will talk. One way or the other, by the
time you leave this room, whether under your own power or by us dragging
your limp body, you will have told us everything we want to know. It is
just a matter of how much pain you are willing to endure in the
process."

Khalela ignored him. Somehow she knew they wouldn't break her. She
prayed to God that her strict Mossad training would help her withstand
the pain she was certain would come from "the machine."

You will take the pain, Khalela, she told herself. You will take it time
and time again. Suleima took it long ago. She sacrificed herself for
you. Now ou must do the same for your people.

y Lieutenant Kevin Dalton couldn't bring himself to leave the area
without learning what had happened to Khatela and Ishmael, although as
several men in the guerrilla group-starting with Abdul-had pointed out
to him, they were probably dead by now. Kevin had repeatedly tried to
convince them, through gesturing, to attack the complex from several
angles using the RPG antitank weapons and machine guns they had brought
with them, but they all rejected the idea, indicating that the Iraqis
had too many soldiers and too many bases nearby.

For the entire night and most of the morning, Kevin had been scanning
the small building where the guards had taken Khalela and Ishmael after
they left the truck. He still had not seen either one come out. Now
Abdul was pointing in the direction where they had parked the Rovers
behind some sand dunes several hundred feet away.

Kevin understood. The Kurds had serious concerns about either Ishmael or
Khalela cracking during an interrogation and telling the enemy about the
existence of a guerrilla group outside the complex's gates.

In addition, he reflected while inspecting the surroundings, there were
really not that many places to hide in case the soldiers came looking
for them.

Kevin looked at Abdul, shook his head, and pointed the index finger of
his right hand at himself and then at the ground where he stood. He knew
he couldn't leave until he was certain Khalela was dead. Besides, he
didn't have anything to lose. Getting back across the border only meant
a court martial, a fate he would accept only after he had learned the
fate of the woman he now knew he loved.

Abdul approached him and handed him a Kalashnikov and several magazines.
The Kurd then took his canteen and hunting knife and also gave them to
Kevin, who smiled and nodded.

Then, before Kevin could react, Abdul embraced him. Kevin, caught off
guard, didn't know how to react, finally opting for a few pats on
Abdul's back. When the Kurd released him, Kevin saw tears in Abdul's
eyes.

"Good-bye, my friend, may God be with you," he said to him.

Abdul put a hand to Kevin's shoulder. "Good-bye ... pilot Dalton." He
then turned and followed the other Kurds who were already walking toward
the vehicles.

A few minutes later, Kevin watched the small caravan of Kurdish
guerrillas drive away. Suddenly, a low whop-whop sound made him train
the binoculars on the far hills to his left. His middle finger rotated
the adjusting wheel, trying to bring the image into focus. A cold chill
filled him when two Hind-D attack helicopters came into plain view,
flying in the direction of the caravan.

"Oh, Jesus!" was all he could mumble as each of the five vehicles went
in its own direction. The helicopters broke formation and went in
pursuit. He noticed how the choppers approached at nearly ground level
and briefly popped up to fifty or so feet before unloading a shower of
rockets on the Kurds.

Three vehicles exploded right away; the other two managed to zigzag
their way through the inferno and emerged undamaged. The helicopters
turned and came back for a final pass. This time, Kevin heard 20mm
cannons and saw the cloud of dust that followed their deadly trail. The
cloud quickly moved toward the vehicles. One Rover flipped the moment it
came in contact with the bullets. The second crashed against a sand
dune. Three rebels got out, but didn't make it far before they too were
gunned down.

Kevin lowered the binoculars and closed his eyes. The entire episode had
taken less than a minute. Bastards!

A sound behind him made him reach for the Kalashnikov and spin around,
his finger fixed on the trigger.

"Abdul! You dumb shit! I could have killed you!"

Abdul didn't respond. The Kurd still had tears in his eyes.

Kevin looked at the two huge sacks and the large backpack his friend was
carrying, and he noted several green cylindrical RPG-7 shoulderlaunched
rocket warheads sticking out of the top of one.

"RPG," said Abdul, dropping the sacks and moving the back of his right
thumb across his neck.

Kevin nodded. "Tonight."

Over a hundred feet below the surface, Dr. Radsul Sakkar, followed by
Risha, inserted his magnetic card into a slot in the wall. The red light
above the steel door turned green and the door automatically slid to the
side. He stepped inside the computer room: the heart of Allahbad. The
door automatically closed behind him. Usually, he was the only one
allowed inside the room. The computers, all IBM 3033s, worked
laboriously at controlling everything inside the underground complex,
from the delicate climate control system to the automatic deployment and
launch of missiles. Nothing was left to human error. Four computers
worked in parallel; a fifth one did nothing but check the results of the
other four.

Sakkar walked to the large console in the center of the circular room.
Risha stood quietly behind him. Next to the console was a scale map of
the underground missile deployment tunnels. Thirty missiles, thirty
twenty-kiloton warheads, thought Sakkar. Each with enough energy to wipe
out an area the size of Baghdad. Sakkar typed a few commands on the
keyboard, and the large computer screen responded by displaying a map of
Iraq and surrounding countries. At the bottom of the screen he read the
words: View: A, B, or C. Current is B. Sakkar had gone through the
exercise many times. After all, he had programmed the different target
combination scenarios himself. He placed the cursor under A and hit the
return key.

Instantly the screen came alive with lines propagating from Allahbad to
thirty different locations in the map. Scenario A, designed to take out
only military installations in the region from Israel to Oman, would
leave the area virtually defenseless to an Iraqi combined air/land
assault with tanks and planes. Scenario B destroyed only major military
installations and most key cities. Scenario C, by far the most
destructive of all, would take out only a few strategic military
installations, most large cities, and most of the region's oil
installations. The system operated by default in scenario A, the
scenario where Iraq would start the attack. But Saddam Hussein had
ordered it changed to scenario B. Sakkar had also been ordered to hold
launches until all thirty missiles were deployed, and then wait for
final confirmation. The reason for the order was simple. Once a missile
left the underground complex, Allied forces would know exactly what
Allahbad really manufactured and launch a counter strike. Although
Allahbad had been built to survive such an attack, it would be safer to
wait for all the missiles to be ready prior to launching any of them.
Sakkar estimated Allahbad to be less than a few days away from having
all missiles ready. In the meantime, if the Allies somehow bombed
Allahbad, and if by some miracle the underground lab was threatened, the
computer system would override all other inputs and go directly to
scenario C-the immediate launch of all deployed missiles. Scenario C
worked by priorities. The first targets consisted of major cities in
Israel, Saudi Arabia, Iran, and Kuwait. Oil installations followed, with
a few military targets as a last priority. Sakkar knew that if scenario
C ever occurred, Tel Aviv, Riyadh, Kuwait City, and Tehran, would be
destroyed, since the first few missiles would launch in their
directions. In addition, the world would most certainly suffer a major
oil shortage far beyond that which the Iraqis had created during the
1991 Gulf War. This shortage would last for years, until the oil
manufacturing facilities in the region could be repaired and brought
back to normal production levels.

Sakkar typed a few more keys and placed the system in a self-test mode.
This required the systems to leave all control settings at their current
positions for a fraction of a second to perform an internal hardware
test. Upon completion of the short built-in test, the system went back
to its normal duties. Because of the speed of the computers, the test
finished so quickly that Sakkar couldn't see any difference in the
system's operations. The message SYSTEM OPERATIONAL flashed on the
screen. Satisfied, he hit the return key once more and the screen went
blank.

Sakkar turned and stared into his subordinate's eyes.

"Soon, Doctor," Risha said with a fierce commitment that impressed
Sakkar himself. "Soon we will be able to give our country what it needs
to prevail."

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUI)I ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORIDEL Day Four. 1145
Local Time.

Lieutenant Chico Delgado's Tomcat touched down gently. Commander John
Mcdeere taxied it next to the canopy protecting an F-117A from the
midday sun. Delgado had never seen a Black Jet up close before.

The moment the canopy of his Tomcat was raised, Delgado reached down and
flipped open the built-in steps and ladder before the puzzled Air Force
crew could figure it out. He stepped down and stared at the unorthodox
shape of the black bird.

"Let's go, Chico," he heard Mcdeere say.

"I'll be right along, sir." Delgado said, still looking at the F-117A.

Mcdeere shook his head and slowly walked back toward Delgado. "Listen.
Perhaps I wasn't clear enough about this back in the carrier. Allow me
to tell you that we're doing this thing by the numbers. I don't want you
roaming around this base causing trouble and sticking your nose where it
doesn't belong. I don't want anything, anything, to go wrong either on
base or in the air. If you want to look at this plane, go ahead, but
don't touch anything, don't screw around with anything, and don't
embarrass the Navy. I want us to come out of this mission smelling like
a rose. You follow?"

Delgado felt like taking a swing at the large Mcdeere. Not only had his
CO questioned his competence, but he also had the boldness to lecture
him in public, and at an Air Force base of all places!

Delgado was furious. He knew he could take him. As big as Mcdeere I was,
Delgado knew he could easily take him. The Hispanic lieutenant had
knocked down larger guys during his barrio days. Each man's gotta a pair
ofsoft and sensitive nuts, fragile knees, and two temples. and you,
Commander John all-I-care-for-is-my-career Mcdeere, ain't no different.
1st one swing and you would drop like a fuckingfly, man. Just one kick
and you'll be crawling all over the tarmac picking up your balls. Just
one shot, asshole. One shot's all I'm asking for. But Delgado knew that
option didn't exist. He settled for a "Yes, sir," muttered between
clenched teeth.

Mcdeere turned around and walked toward the base's command post.

Fuming, Delgado went back to his examination of the Black Jet. He
noticed the sagging set of flaps on the inboard edges of the wings and
decided that they had to be hydraulically boosted.

He moved closer until his face was inches from the smooth black surface
of the sagging flap and softly rubbed a hand on it. Fuck Mcdeere and his
rules.

The black skin felt soft, unlike the hard aluminum panels of the Tomcat.

"That's RAM, bud. Ain't it neat?"

Startled, Delgado turned around and faced a tall and large Air Force
pilot wearing a pair of eel-skin cowboy boots. The East L.A. native
noticed the pilot's thick mustache lifting as the man gave him a wide
grin.

"Excuse me, sir?" Delgado asked after noticing the silver insignia of a
lieutenant colonel on his shoulders.

"I said, that's RAM-Radar Absorbent Material."

"What's it made out op"

"Heck, who knows. I just fly 'em, not build 'em. But I heard someone
said once that they use somesort of polyurethane material that's got
damned good properties for absorbin' radar."

"So I guess underneath that's just like any other plane, eh?"

"Yep. You got it. It flies just like the rest of 'em birds, except no
one can detect ya at night. Pretty cool, ah?"

"Yes, sir," Delgado said. "Oh, I'm Lieutenant Chico Delgado."

"Howdy, Chico. I'm Lieutenant Colonel Richard Kramer, but call me
Longhorn."

"Longhorn?"

"Yep. Don't go by that bullshit of sir or nothin' like that."

Delgado smiled. "No problem, Longhorn."

Kramer pulled out a pack of chewing tobacco. "You chew?"

"Ali, no thanks."

"Good for you, Chico. Stuff is nasty." He took a healthy dip and
inserted it in his cheek. "You fly that Tomcat in here?"

"Backseater."

Kramer laughed. "Well, Chico, I gotta tell you. I think you would look
pretty damned funny out there tryin' to find this bird on your radar.
With this baby I can come right up to your ass and you wouldn't notice
me till I was bitin' you."

Delgado smiled again. "What about the funny shape? I guess it's
necessary, huh?"

"You bet. I'll buy you a beer if you can find a single large flat
surface on this bird. It ain't got any."

"I believe you. That way radar will only reflect in one direction."

"Yep. And the unavoidable long straight edge of the forward wing's
covered by RAM. And that's not even the best part of the design. Here,
let me show you the engine exhausts."

Delgado shook his head and smiled in disbelief as he followed Kramer to
the back of the plane. Where in the hell did you come from, buddy?

You're all right.

While listening to the humming of the portable air-conditioning unit
that Draper had already had installed in the tent, Robert Bourdeaux
looked outside through the clear plastic window and recognized Colonel
Kramer. He was walking around an F-117A with a Navy pilot.

"Well, Bob ... I can call you Bob, right?" Before Bourdeaux could even
nod, Draper continued. "Good. What would you like, Bob? Iced tea or
water?"

Bourdeaux let it go. Draper was impossible. He slowly turned his head
and looked up at the airman holding a tray of glasses filled with tea or
water. He snatched one with water. "Thank you, airman."

"You're welcome, sir."

Bourdeaux was sitting at one end of a table for six, Draper at the
other, Halston to one side. The meeting had not started well. The
silver-haired general-turned-undersecretary had heard about the two
failed rescue attempts for the downed F-14 pilot. Draper had been very
blunt. First he criticized Lieutenant Kevin Dalton's actions for
disobeying a direct order from his carrier, which, as Draper had put it,
had caused an investment of millions of dollars in equipment and
training to go down the drain. Draper had said that he would like to get
his hands on the hotheaded pilot and called him a typical example of
what the Navy didn't want their pilots to be like. Then Draper had
subtly criticized Halston for not sending in enough firepower to cover
the ttempts. He did it with the elegance of a full-fledged politician.
rescue a Not really hammering at Halston, but positioning Halston so
that the colonel had to admit openly that he'd screwed up.

"Sir," Bourdeaux interjected in Halston's favor, "with all due respect,
all rescue operations have incredible risks attached, especially in
daylight. All the colonel did-"

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," Draper said. "I didn't mean to make a big deal
of it. What's done is done. Obviously someone around here thinks Colonel
Halston's very capable to do the job, otherwise he wouldn't have it. I
do hope, however, that you people think twice before sending in another
rescue team just for the hell of it, especially during the day. I think
I might mention this to President Clinton in my next report. Perhaps we
could have a quick change of policy with regards to CSAR. Then again,
maybe not. After all it's none of my business, but I do hate to see good
men go down because of an insubordinate pilot. Well! I guess it's your
choice, Colonel." Draper briefly smiled at his own comment and waved a
hand in the air while he took a sip of his iced tea.

Bourdeaux gritted his teeth and forced his mind to find the necessary
patience to squelch the overwhelming desire to tell Draper to go to
hell. Somehow Bourdeaux succeeded and remained silent. go straig He
glanced briefly at Halston, who kept his eyes trained on his plate.
Draper motioned the airman to leave the trailer. The airman nodded,
turned and left. "Let's see what the U.S. Armed Forces is serving our
brave soldiers today. Ah! Fried chicken and french fries!

Why don't you start, Colonel?"

Halston glanced at the tray and snagged a chicken leg.

"Tell me, gentlemen," Draper began, "exactly how is it that the F-117
tricked the Iraqis last night?"

"Simple, sir," Halston responded. "It flew over their facilities and
released short, controlled bursts of chaff. The incident must have
confused the living hell out of them."

"Yes, how interesting ... Care for some fries, Colonel?"

"Ah, no, sir. Thank you."

"Bob? Fries?"

"Please." Bourdeaux reached out and grabbed a handful.

"So, is that the same principle we'll use tonight?"

"Yes, sir," continued Halston. "We'll get more details during the
brief-"

"Have the Navy jets arrived yet?" interrupted Draper.

Haiston lowered his gaze.

"Just watched them land," said Bourdeaux while holding a fry in his
right hand. "Although I hate to take F-14s away from the ships."

"Yes, yes, I know," Draper interrupted. "It was my idea. Look at it
another way. Chances are Desert Star will get a lot of publicity, so it
would be better if it was a coordinated effort between the Air Force and
the Navy. That way both branches of the armed forces will get equal
credit and recognition."

"I guess so, sir," responded Bourdeaux as he stuffed the fry in his
mouth and chewed it hard and fast.

"Good. I'm glad we're in agreement. I want our operation to go
perfectly. All's in place, then?"

"Yes, sir. All we have to do now is wait for nightfall."

Thirty minutes later, Bourdeaux and Halston left the tent in silence.
I'm going to kill that bastard, Bourdeaux thought, coming to terms with
the fact that Draper had been able to infuriate him more than anybody
else he knew. Well, I should have known the asshole would have reacted
like that to the helicopter incident. Bourdeaux sighed, realizing the
helicopter had been one of those unavoidable incidents. He knew Halston
had been taking a chance with the rescue mission. If it had been
successful, then Halston would have only been reminded that he was doing
his job. But since it failed-and lost a chopper and crew-Halston had
been told he was an idiot for failing to anticipate problems. It had
always amazed Bourdeaux to see people rendering judgment on his
activities after the fact. Idiots! he thought. They are all a bunch of
arrogant bastards who have no idea how hard it is to plan and execute a
successful mission! Bourdeaux had little patience for those who were
quick to criticize bad missions. Where were they during the planning
stage? he asked himself. What right do they have to complain and
second-guess decisions?

Bourdeaux approached his tent. His head was throbbing again. Draper
definitely knew how to push his buttons. He's the master of them all. He
decided he was not going to fight Draper on this one. It appeared as if
the old Silver Rat had thought this one out quite thoroughly. He looked
at Halston silently walking next to him.

"Fuck him, Pete. Don't let him get to you. Don't let the bastard screw
with your mind."

Halston smiled. "Are you kidding me? He's mild compared to some of the
officers I've had the displeasure of crossing my path. Don't you worry
about me, pal. My skin's thicker than a Bradley's. That asshole will
come and go, and life will go on. I, however, will wait until he's gone
before trying to do something else about Dalton. That's if something can
be done about him. My bet is he's a POW by now."

Bourdeaux relaxed a bit, buoyed by his friend's attitude. "Possible. But
you know you're right about how to handle Draper. I'm letting him get to
me. Say, you sure seem to be in pretty good spirits under the
circumstances."

Halston grinned. "Let's just say that my personal life's taking a turn
for the better."

In spite of all his problems, Bourdeaux managed a thin smile. He felt
happy for his old Air Force buddy. "That's great. Glad to hear it. Like
I said, she looks like a great gal."

"She is."

Bourdeaux's face turned a bit more serious. "How are you gonna handle
the fact that she's under your command?"

"She's gonna transfer out of CSAR in a week, as soon as I can get
another pilot. She's moving to noncombat helicopter support. Based here,
of course. It's all set up."

"Great. I'm glad it's gonna work out. Well, I'm off to bed. It's going
to be a long night." With that Bourdeaux walked into his tent.

ALLAHBAD PROCESSING COMPLEX, SOUTH OF AN NAJAF, IRAQ. Day Four. 1300
Local Time.

Khalela's body arched up toward the ceiling. She felt as though her soul
was being torn from her as several hundred volts ran through her body.
It lasted but a second. The current stopped and her back crashed against
the rough surface of the wooden table. She stopped screaming. The pain
began to ebb. She had nearly bitten through the piece of rubber Hassoud
had pushed in between her teeth to prevent her from accidentally biting
or swallowing her tongue. It tasted foul.

She felt disoriented for a few seconds until Major Hassoud's hairy face
slowly came into focus. The pain from the alligator clips, one on her
left nipple and another one on a toe of her left foot, seemed negligible
compared to the brutal, uncontrollable fury that had momentarily taken
control of her body.

"That is just a taste of what is coming next, Khalela. There are seven
settings on this machine. I have seen men survive the first five, only
to become vegetables after the sixth. I just gave you a one-second taste
of the first setting, and that was using relatively dry spots on your
body."

He removed the rubber from her mouth.

"Tell me, who do you work for?"

You will not break me. You will not break me. You will not break me, she
silently told herself. Khalela heard Suleima's scream in her mind. Never
once did she tell them about Khalela. Not once. She had begged for
mercy. She had pleaded for her dignity, her honor, her life, but never
told them about her younger sister. Suleima had taken the ultimate
punishment that a woman can receive. The ultimate violation of privacy.
The ultimate act of deranged men. One by one they came, forcing
themselves inside her while screaming death and shame to Israel and its
people. No, Khalela thought, you will not break me, you bastard. Resist.
Resist. Resist.

"There is no use in delaying the inevitable, my dear Khalela. You will
have to tell me."

Khalela remained silent, her gaze fixed on his.

Hassoud took a knife and brought it closer to her. Khalela followed it
down to her belly. The glistening skin on her stomach flinched at the
contact with Hassoud's cold knife. He smiled and reached for the
alligator clip on her nipple and slowly opened it. He put a finger to
his tongue and wet it with saliva. Then softly, he rubbed it around the
redness of the bruised nipple.

"It will make a much better contact." He placed the alligator clip over
the nipple and let it snap in place. Her body tensed again and a light
moan escaped her lips. Hassoud did the same to her toe. "Again, Khalela.
Who do you work for and what were you doing in the complex?"

Khalela saw Suleima. Saw the Arab soldiers. Heard her scream, her pain,
her agony. Never! I will tell you nothing!

Hassoud secured the rubber piece in her mouth and reached for the knob
in the machine. "Listen for the click, Khalela."

She followed his hand as he began to turn the black knob. Resist.
Resist. Resist. The click came, as loud as a gunshot. Then everything
went out of focus.

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Four. 1305
Local Time.

Colonel Peter Halston smiled when Amanda Green walked into his tent. It
seemed as if they couldn't get enough of each other since the day
before. Like a couple of kids hiding from their parents, they would
sneak around just to have a few private moments.

Without saying a word, they kissed.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" she whispered while nibbling his left ear.

He caressed the back of her neck with his hand while hugging her tight
with the other arm. He enjoyed the feeling of having her breasts pressed
against his chest. "As a matter of fact I did, Captain. We need to head
out to the communications tent. There's something I want to show YOU."

Amanda pulled back a few inches and gazed into his eyes. "And what might
that be?" She kissed the tip of his nose.

"It's a surprise."

"Do I get a hint?"

"Nope."

The two of them walked side by side and entered the communications tent,
where they headed for the last station on the right, next to the dark
green table where Bourdeaux and Halston usually went over satellite
photos. The radio operator, a sergeant, looked up at them.

"Ready?" asked Halston.

"He's been on hold for fifteen minutes, sir."

"Sorry. I got sidetracked. Official duties."

Amanda chuckled lightly. The sergeant looked at them questioningly.
Halston ignored him and motioned the puzzled sergeant and the other two
operators in the tent to take a quick break. He then reached for a
headset and put it on, adjusting the microphone to his lips. After
reaching down and flipping a switch on the control panel, he said, "Are
you still holding, sir?"

"That's right. Where's my daughter? I was told she would come to the
phone," came the voice through the headphones.

"She's right here, sir," responded Halston while Amanda gave him a
curious look.

Without another word, Halston handed the headset to Amanda. She looked
at it for a few seconds before putting it on. She said, "Hello, this is
Captain Green." A moment later, a tear ran down her cheek.

NIGHT CREATURES "Tis now the very witching time of night, When
churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.

-William Shakespeare

ALLAHBAD PROCESSING COMPLEX, SOUTH OF AN NAJAF, IRAQ. Day Four. 1845
Local Time.

Dressed in one of the Iraqi uniforms the Kurds had captured at the
village, Kevin Dalton crawled slowly over the uneven, sandy terrain. The
throbbing in his leg remained steady, reminding him that he had been
shot just over forty-eight hours before. The early evening sky still
showed a light hint of orange and the sand had barely begun to release
its heat, but the surroundings had grown dark enough as far as Kevin was
concerned. Abdul had wanted him to wait just a little longer, until the
area was completely swallowed by the night, but Kevin had refused. In
his mind, every second counted. Every damned second ... That is, if
she's still ... Dammit Kevin! Stop thinking that way! he cursed at
himself. She is alive and well. You just need to get to her!

The thought made him move more quickly, ignoring the pain from his
wounded leg. He would worry about that later. Priorities, Kevin.
Priorities. He approached the south end of the chain-link fence, looked
to the other end and saw that Abdul had reached it as well.

His hands now moved in unison. Although he had never done this before,
Kevin surprised himself at the ease with which his fingers molded the
C-4 plastic explosive Abdul had stolen during the raid on an Iraqi
supply post a few days back. He carefully pressed it against one of the
wooden posts that supported and insulated the electric fence. Any poor
bastard touching the fence itself, Kevin estimated, would be exposed to
what appeared to be a thousand volts. He shifted his gaze away from the
thick electric cables connected to the top of the fence and continued
his work.

His back ached every time he twisted to apply pressure against the
explosives. The pain, however, didn't seem quite as intense as the one
from his bruised and bloodied knees, particularly since he had to kneel
while working. He ignored it all as he used the tip of his fingers to
mold the edges of the plastic. Satisfied, he inserted two wires into the
C-4, one at each end of the oval-shaped charge.

Slowly, he moved toward Abdul and stopped two posts later, where he
repeated the process. He continued alongside the fence, applying a
charge to every other post until he met Abdul halfway.

Abdul took the wire leads from Kevin and tied them to his own. Then the
two of them moved back behind a sand dune, where Kevin watched his
Iranian friend connect the main wires to a digital timer. The giant
Abdul set it to go off in fifteen minutes. Next he handed Kevin a sack
containing four RPG warheads and a launcher unit.

Kevin slung his Kalashnikov across his back, opened the sack, and
inspected the now familiar warheads and launcher unit that Abdul had
shown him how to use an hour earlier. With that, the Kurd smiled, put a
hand to Kevin's shoulder, and walked to his self-assigned post. Kevin
did the same.

Surrounded once again by a sea of darkness, Colonel Longhorn Kramer kept
his Black Jet ten thousand feet above the sand at a comfortable 300
knots. Range to target three zero miles.

Thirty miles to the west of the F-117A, Lieutenant Chico Delgado watched
Commander John Mcdeere lead a formation with three other F-14As as they
flew at a mere fifty feet over the rugged terrain. He was not that
excited about the altitude, but stealth was the key to the success of
the mission. The Tomcats were to act as a decoy by dispensing chaff
miles away from the real objective.

Delgado sat back and stared at the blank display in front of him. All
was quiet. All emitters had been secured to deprive the Iraqi defenses
of any chance of detecting them.

Delgado shifted his gaze outside, toward the earth. He couldn't see a
thing, but knew the desert sands were close ... too close. For a brief
moment, his thoughts drifted back to Kevin. Going against his CO's
orders, Delgado had asked about Kevin at the base. A female helicopter
pilot had told him about the two failed rescue attempts and about the
disappearing Guard beacon. Nothing after that. The helicopter pilot
thought that Kevin might have been captured.

He frowned, wondering what had happened to his friend. Then his
curiosity slowly switched to disappointment and finally hate for Mcdeere
and the others who had turned their backs on Kevin. They had no right,
thought Delgado. No right to renderjudgment unless they had been there
at the time. But none of them had been. None of them had experienced the
probable wave of confusion that had flooded Kevin's mind the moment
Lancaster's craft was shot down. Delgado himself could only attempt to
imagine it. They simply heard it on the radio and were quick to pass
judgment, having all the time in the world to analyze the situation.
Problem is, reflected Delgado, when you're going the speed of sound and
the enemy is on your ass, you ain't got all the time in the world to sit
down and carefully analyze the situation over a damned beer.

Delgado knew well that in this business split-second decisions make or
break everything you've worked for so hard most of your life. It could
all be gone in a second. The quick and the dead, separated by a hair.
The dreams, the friendships ... the love. All gone in a supersonic hell
that always loomed over every man who had ever set foot in a fighter.

"Random chaff in thirty."

Delgado's thoughts were interrupted by the monotone voice of Mcdeere
over the ICS. Asshole.

"Ready for chaff dispensing whenever you are," Delgado responded as the
formation began a steep climb to five thousand feet. For this mission,
instead of Phoenix missiles, the forward belly station carried an
expanded chaff adapter, which contained more chaff than the F-14A would
normally carry.

He looked outside one last time. Vaya con Dios, Crackers.

Kevin Dalton reached his position with ten minutes to spare. He dropped
the sack on the sand dune overlooking the front of the complex, pulled
out the plastic canteen, and took two swigs. He replaced the cap and
pulled out one of the RPG warheads. He grabbed a long green cylinder
containing the rocket propellant and screwed it into the warhead. He did
the same to the other three warheads until each had a rocket unit safely
attached.

He then sat next to the warheads and uncovered the nosecap on each one.
This, he learned from Abdul, was something usually done only after
inserting the assembled round into the launcher unit, but in this case
they didn't think they would have the time to do it to each unit after
the firing started.

After uncovering all four nosecaps, Kevin carefully removed the safety
pins and replaced the covers. He checked his watch. Five minutes left.
He took an assembled round and loaded it into the muzzle of the launcher
unit.

Kevin got up, lifted the fifteen-pound weapon and rested it on his right
shoulder. The weight felt right. He looked through the sights and
centered them on the front of the warehouse, which looked to be roughly
three hundred yards away-well within the range of the RPG for a
stationary target.

He lowered the weapon and checked his watch. Still a couple of minutes
left. Kevin removed the magazine from the AK-47 and briefly inspected
it. Full. He jammed it back in place and set down the rifle next to the
RPG.

Bringing the night-vision binoculars up to his eyes, Kevin inspected the
front of the complex one last time. First he inspected the gate. Nothing
different, he thought as he brought four soldiers into focus by the
entrance to the complex. Next came the warehouse. He noticed that the
large door was only partially open- What?

He heard it again. This time he was determined to find the source of the
quiet jet engine noise.

He lay on his back and trained the binoculars at the sky. Nothing. He
could still hear it. Damn! What is that?

Colonel Longhorn Kramer nudged the control stick forward and put the
Black Jet into a shallow dive.

. He checked his watch and opened the bomb bay doors. Kramer cringed
inwardly, knowing that the moment the huge doors under the flat
underside of the fuselage were open, his jet would no longer be totally
invisible to the enemy. If anyone happened to be scanning this
particular sector of airspace, the Black Jet ran a risk of detection.

"In the name of Allah! General Manesh!" shouted Fassan.

Once again, Manesh bolted off his cot and raced to the radar screen.

"Range and speed?"

"Five miles from Allahbad, speed four hundred knots and increasing!"

"What is going on? Is this equipment malfunctioning?"

"No, sir. We carefully checked it after yesterday's-"

"Get on the radio to Allahbad! Hurry, there's hardly any time!" He
rushed out the door.

Drenched in sweat, Major Mohammed Hassoud removed the alligator clips
from Khalela's nipple and toe and powered down the generator. After
another one-hour session and over a dozen "treatments," the woman, whom
Hassoud still only knew as Khalela, had finally passed out from the
pain.

"We will have to wait a while before we can continue. Wait until she
wakes up, unstrap her, and give her something to eat."

"What about some clothes, sir?" asked one of two guards in the room.

"No. I want to lower her self-esteem."

"If humiliation is what you want, sir, could we-"

"Any of you two lay a hand on her and you will follow the Kurd Ishmael
in the barrel. Is that understood?"

Both guards' eyes opened wide. "Yes, sir!"

"That woman is a fount of information. I can feel it. I want to keep her
alive and well for as long as possible. It's going to take some work to
break-"

"Major Hassoud!" A guard came running into the room.

"Yes, what is it?"

"We're under attack, sir!"

"What are you talking about?"

"We just got a call from the air base, sir. Planes are on the way."

"Again? All right, sound the alarm!"

:"Yes, sir!"

"And you two remember what I said about her. Just keep your eyes on her,
nothing else!"

"Yes, sir!"

Hassoud raced outside the room, down the short narrow hall, and out of
the building.

That's one of the bastards! Kevin thought, using the powerful
nightvision binoculars to get a better view of one of the soldiers that
had taken Khalela away the night before. Yes, it's you all right Kevin
heard the quiet jet noise again. He trained the binoculars to the sky.
This time Kevin saw it: a dark silhouette against the star-filled sky.
The craft approached at a shallow angle at around four thousand feet.
What in the world ... lo and behold, it's a damned F-II7! It's one of
ours! he thought.

The entire compound came alive with sirens and spotlights. Once again he
watched as the compound's side doors swung open and dozens of soldiers
raced for the antiaircraft equipment.

He checked his watch. Thirty seconds left.

Kramer made his first pass at four thousand feet. The automatic laser
designator mounted on the starboard side under the fuselage was already
fixed on the large warehouse by the front of the complex. The moment
Kramer released his first Paveway 11, the laser finder electronics in
the bomb automatically sent the appropriate commands to the control
surfaces, which guided the 2000-pound bomb to the spot marked.

"Holy cow!" yelled Kevin when the center of the warehouse exploded in an
orange ball of fire, briefly illuminating the skies.

The C-4 charges went off. Kevin watched the fence collapse with a shower
of sparks as the high voltage came in direct contact with the ground and
created a short circuit. The lights in the compound flickered for a
moment and then went out. A few seconds later, yellow emergency lights
came on. Under them, Kevin watched a Shilka antiaircraft armored vehicle
moving away from the compound, directly toward him.

Kevin brought the RPG launcher unit to his shoulder, trained it on the
vehicle and fired.

The five-pound projectile left the launcher with a bright blast and
quickly accelerated to nearly four hundred feet per second as it made
its way toward the Shilka. Kevin held his breath as the river of smoke
streaked in the direction of the vehicle and veered off to the left.

Shit!

He loaded a second round, aimed and fired. The projectile remained on
course, but the vehicle managed to turn hard to the right, missing the
round by a few feet. The Shilka now moved parallel to the fence, away
from Kevin.

Cursing his bad luck, Kevin slung the AK-47 across his back and grabbed
the launcher unit and remaining warheads. He ran toward the complex,
which by now was in total chaos.

He snapped his head up when another blast shook the compound, leveling
the plant behind the warehouse.

Kevin stopped, inserted a projectile into the already hot muzzle, aimed
and fired.

The warhead blasted away and hurtled after the Shilka, striking it in
the rear and causing a loud explosion. The vehicle continued moving, but
it appeared to be out of control. It stopped by the fence.

Kevin left the last RPG round behind, clutched the Kalashnikov and ran
for the section of the gate that had collapsed, reaching it a minute
later. He saw Abdul running toward him. Kevin motioned him to stay back.
Because of Abdul's size, they had not been able to fit him into any of
the captured Iraqi uniforms. The Kurd continued running in his
direction.

A huge ball of flames erupted from the far side of the complex, now
totally ablaze.

Kevin raced past the destroyed vehicle and toward the small building
next to the warehouse, praying that his four-day stubble would help him
blend in better. But it really didn't matter at this point, he reflected
as the thundering sound from nearby explosions rang in his eardrums. He
glanced backward and spotted Abdul by the fence. Again he waved him away
and pointed to the hill left of the complex. Without waiting for a
response, Kevin reached the front door and opened it, looking in every
direction before going inside, then closed it behind him.

A relatively narrow and barely illuminated hall extended along the
entire length of the short building. Kevin quickly counted six doors,
three on each side. He approached the first one and put an ear to it,
but couldn't hear a thing over the commotion outside. He tried the knob:
locked. He tried the next one across the hall: locked, too. Damn!

He continued to the third door. The knob turned. Kevin paused and took a
deep breath, not sure how to play it. If anyone asked him a question, he
would have to shoot. On the other hand, he could just jump in and start
shooting. He exhaled and made up his mind.

He slowly pushed the door open and limped his way inside, left hand on
his stomach, head down, right hand gripping the Kalashnikov.

He spotted two guards behind a table where-Khalela!

The guards looked in his direction and said something.

Kevin moaned and pressed his stomach even harder. The guards stepped to
the side and walked toward him.

Now!

In one swift move, Kevin brought the weapon up and unloaded a dozen
rounds. Both guards were propelled against the back wall by the impact.

Still clutching his AK-47, he raced to the side of the table. Animals!
he thought as he saw Khalela's naked body.

Kevin held his breath once more as he put two fingers on her wrist and
felt for a pulse. She's alive!

Controlling the overwhelming desire to just hold her tight, Kevin
quickly set the Kalashnikov on the floor, unstrapped her and lifted her
from the table, setting her gently next to his weapon. Another explosion
rocked the compound.

Almost frantically, he stripped the limp body of the guard that was the
closest to her height. The uniform was bloodstained, but it didn't
matter. In fact it was better that way, he thought.

He guided her feet into the pants, pulled them up, and fastened the
belt. He put the shirt on, buttoned it up, put the boots on, and grabbed
a green cap that had fallen off a guard. He tucked her long, black hair
under the cap and pressed it firmly down on her head. Snagging the AK-47
and strapping it across his back, Kevin pulled Khalela up and ran his
left arm across her back. With his right hand, Kevin grabbed the Model
39 tucked in the small of his back.

He started moving toward the door when an officer appeared in the
doorway clutching a pistol. Kevin recognized him as the same one who had
left the building earlier.

The bearded officer, whose hair fell right to his eyeline, leveled the
handgun at Kevin.

"-See you in hell, you bastard!" Kevin snapped back as he trained the
Model 39 on the Iraqi. Before either one could fire, two huge arms
crashed against the officer's side, sending him flying across the room.

Abdul!

The officer kept his grip on the pistol and turned it on Abdul, who was
already lunging at him.

The gun went off once, twice. Abdul reached the officer, yanked the
weapon from his hand and embraced him in a bear hug, "Aghh!"

The hairy officer arched back and screamed as Abdul tightened the
powerful lock. The sickening noise of snapping bones preceded the
officer going limp. Abdul released him and slowly walked back toward
Kevin, who was still holding up Khalela.

As Abdul got closer, Kevin noticed two bullet wounds, both in the
stomach. The large Kurd fell to his knees, opened his arms, and stared
at the ceiling mumbling something Kevin could only guess was prayer.

Abdul then looked at him. "Pilot Dalton  ..." He collapsed.

Kevin laid Khalela gently against the wall, reached down, and felt
Abdul's wide wrist for a pulse. There was none. Kevin closed his eyes in
mourning, but quickly opened them as another blast shook the building.
It seemed a lot closer than the others.

"Good-bye, my friend." He picked Khalela up with both arms, and raced
outside.

General Abunnasr Manesh had leveled off at ten thousand feet and
accelerated to 700 knots when all four targets disappeared from his
screen.

"Fassan! What is going on? The targets disappeared again!"

"Don't know, sir- For the love of- Sir, check your screen again!"

"What in the world are you talking- Where did they come from?"

"Don't know, sir. Targets are just appearing and disappearing from my
screen like ghosts.

"Range to new targets?"

"Two zero miles, heading one one six, five hundred knots.

Manesh threw the control stick to the left and applied full power. He
eyed the radar screen and saw several targets. "Got them!"

Thirty miles east of the complex, the F-14s completed their chaff run
and turned back toward Saudi Arabia. One of the targets disappeared from
Manesh's screen. He mumbled a few obscenities as he trained his craft on
the remaining targets also disappeared less than a minute later as their
speed decreased to a THE PATHS OF GLORY standstill and slowly faded off
his display. His screen was blank once more.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

-Thomas Gray

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDEL Day Four 2 1 00
Local Time.

The mood was that of victory as Robert Bourdeaux stood behind the video
crew and quietly watched General Kenneth Draper put on his show. They
stood roughly thirty feet from him, away from the limelight.

General Draper had ordered the planes arranged in a semi-circle with
their noses pointing to the center of the circle, where he stood on a
podium wearing a freshly starched set of fatigues and a cap. Bourdeaux
noticed that Draper had even gone to the extreme of placing the F-117A
in the center, flanked by two Tomcats on each side to further promote
the flavor of a true Air Force/Navy effort.

"Damn, Bob," Halston mumbled, "I don't think anyone at Holly wood could
have staged this better."

"No shit. This guy should run for president. Man, I'd probably even vote
for the bastard."

Both turned their heads toward the reporter interviewing Draper.

"At exactly what time did the bombing begin, General Draper?" asked the
reporter.

Draper shifted his gaze to the camera. His face was set in stone as he
related the entire mission. His voice was slow, his words measured. He
praised the pilots who had participated in the mission and called Desert
Star the best air mission he'd seen in years. When asked about the
informal reports from some of the pilots that other sections of the
complex had blown up from what appeared to be a ground attack, Draper
graciously denied it and firmly stated that Desert Star was strictly a
bombing mission.

"What about the missiles, sir? Was there any type of confirmation on
their destruction?" asked the reporter.

"Have you ever seen the damage that a single two-thousand-pound Paveway
bomb can do? The place is still in flames, and it'll continue to burn
for several days. Also remember that they're in the middle of the
desert. The closest river is miles away. By the time the dust settles, I
doubt we'll be able to tell a car from a building."

Halston turned to Bourdeaux. "I don't think that will be the case," he
said.

"I know," responded Bourdeaux. He knew that, as in the West, Allahbad
and other Iraqi processing centers were tied directly into main water
lines. They usually had more available water pressure than that of a
fire hydrant. In Bourdeaux's opinion, the fires would be out by sunrise.
Just in timefor a KH-11 pass. Bourdeaux checked his watch. "We'll know
in six hours when our satellite makes its first daylight pass."

"Yep," confirmed Halston. "If our original assumption was correct about
that big warehouse building, when the flames subside, we should be able
to tell if there were any rockets in the place."

"Well," Bourdeaux said, "according to Colonel Kramer, one of his bombs
hit dead center over the warehouse. I would expect to see a huge
craterlike hole in its roof in those photographs tomorrow. I tell you,
it would be interesting to see how Draper would react if those photos
prove that his Desert Star mission did nothing but destroy a milk
factory-"

"Excuse me, gentlemen."

Bourdeaux and Halston turned around and faced a slim, clean-cut,
Hispanic-looking Navy pilot.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Halston said, acknowledging the pilot's rank.

"Could I talk to you in private for a few minutes, Colonel? It won't
take longer than that. Promise."

Halston looked at Bourdeaux. "Be right back, Bob."

"All right."

Halston walked several feet away from the crowd.

"Sir, my name's Chico Delgado from the Ranger. I'm a good friend of
Lieutenant Kevin Dalton. We were crewed together up to the day he went
down."

"Hmm ... were you involved in Desert Star?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm sure General Draper shook your hand, but I want to
congratulate you, Lieutenant. That was one heck of a job you all did
last night."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate the compliment." Delgado lowered his gaze.

Halston smiled. "There's something else on your mind, Lieutenant. I can
tell. What is it?"

"It's about Lieutenant Dalton, sir."

"What do you want to know?"

"May I speak frankly, sir?"

Halston blinked twice and narrowed his eyes. "Ah, sure. I suppose SO.

"Well, sir," Delgado started, looking both ways, "over at the Ranger, no
one's sayin' much about what happened to Crackers ... that's Lieutenant
Dalton, sir. When I say no one, sir, I mean people like Commander John
Mcdeere, my CO. A few other officers are acting the same way. It looks
like they're hopin' the situation's just gonna fade away if no one
brings it up, almost as if they're ashamed of the whole thing. But the
fact of the matter's that most of the pilots are gettin' pretty pissed
off about all the secrecy."

"That's fascinating, Lieutenant, but what's that got to do with me?"

"The rumor around the base's that you tried to rescue him twice. Any
chance you can give me more details?"

"I'm not admitting that I have the information you're asking for, but
let me ask you this. If I did have that information and gave it to you,
what would you do with it?"

"I would like to share it with other concerned pilots and put their
minds at ease. Tell them that the situation's being handled properly;
that if anyone's gotta chance of findin' him it's you, sir."

Halston nodded. "Well, I guess it's only fair to you and the other
pilots to know as much as we know about Dalton's whereabouts. Let's go
for a short walk."

BAGHDAD. Day Four. 2130 Local Time.

Quietly studying a wall map of Iraq inside his bunker, Saddam Hussein
pointed to a village a few miles east of Allahbad. Three of his generals
slowly nodded in understanding.

"Do it immediately, and take the bodies to Allahbad," Saddam said.

One of the generals, a thin, bearded fifty-year-old with grayish hair,
began to say something, but stopped. Saddam raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, General Mojgani?"

The officer hesitated for another second before saying, "Great One  ...
could we ... could we spare the children?"

Saddam dropped his faze to the hardwood floors of the rectangular room
and sighed. He was surrounded by sentimental fools, by soft men without
the nerve to do what was right for Iraq. The Allies had just attacked
Allahbad, and all General Mojgani could think of were some stupid
children? Incredible!

"General Mojgani?"

"Yes, Great One?"

Saddam unholstered his Makarov, leveled it at the startled general, and
fired once in his face. The other two generals jumped out of the way as
Mojgani's faceless body arched back, crashing against the dark
wood-paneled wall.

In seconds, six of Saddam's personal bodyguards stormed the room,
Kalashnikovs leveled at the two stunned generals standing next to
Moigani. The Iraqi leader motioned his bodyguards to leave the room and
take the body with them.

Without another word, Saddam holstered the pistol and pointed his finger
back at the village on the map. The two generals quickly nodded. Saddam
then pointed to the door. The generals left immediately.

THE WHITE House. Day Four. 1600 Local Time.

President Bill Clinton sat back in his leather chair and sighed in
relief. Allahbad had been hit hard, and still Saddam had not retaliated
with nukes. With a growing sense of confidence, the president read
Draper's report once again and smiled. Everything seemed to have gone
perfectly. It appeared as if the CIA had been correct in targeting
Allahbad.

However, in front of Clinton sat a somber director of Central
Intelligence, Craig Kettler, who did not want to concede that the
mission had been a success until he had gotten KH-11 verification of the
damage done to the site.

Clinton saw the director's point, but he also agreed with Draper's
comments on the powerful bombs dropped dead on target. No, the president
decided. The mission had to be a success, after all, what could possibly
survive such an attack?

Auahbaid Processing COMPLEX, South OF AN NAJAF, IRAQ. Day Five. 0035
Local Time.

General Abunnasr Manesh reached the compound shortly after midnight. By
that time most of the fire was already under control. He stormed into
the compound's temporary command post, a tent in front of what was left
of the complex's warehouse. In there he found a young guard sitting
behind the controls of a radio. He snapped to attention.

"Who is in charge here, soldier?" he fumed.

"I am," said a young captain, getting up from a chair on the far side of
the tent. "I'm temporarily in charge until help comes from-"

"Help has arrived, Captain. I'm General Manesh. I'm in charge of the
defense of this sector of the country. I'm relieving you of your command
immediately. From now on, you'll report all activities directly to me.
Is that clear, Captain?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Now, do you mind telling me what in the world happened here?"

Ten minutes later, a furious Manesh walked outside the tent. His friend,
Major Mohammed Hassoud, had been killed and nobody seemed to know how it
had happened. All they knew was that Hassoud had been in the process of
interrogating two prisoners. After the bombing raid, Hassoud was found
on the floor with a broken back next to a huge man no one could
identify. There were also two soldiers in the room, both shot dead.
There had to be a logical explanation. Was there a relationship between
Hassoud's death and the bombing? Or was it merely coincidence? Perhaps
the prisoners used the bombing raid as a distraction and overpowered
Hassoud and the two soldiers. But who was the large man? No one saw him
come into the compound. Was he the one who broke Hassoud's back? There
was also the issue of bullet holes in the wall, but none of the weapons
in the room had been fired.

Manesh rubbed his eyes. So many questions, and no one in the complex
seemed to know the answers. He raised his eyebrows. At least the
underground facility was still safe, according to the young captain.
Doctor Sakkar, the chief scientist, had reported no serious problems
down there. The operation was proceeding as scheduled. There had been a
minor blackout during the bomb raid, but electricity had been restored
an hour later. There had been no casualties among the scientific
community.

Manesh watched several soldiers unload the bodies of women and children
from a truck. They had been massacred just a half hour ago in a nearby
village by Iraqi troops under orders from Baghdad. Their purpose was to
generate enough dead civilians to start a propaganda war against the
Allies. Manesh shook his head. Sometimes his government acted quite
irrationally. The bodies of the villagers-close to a hundred of
them-were lined up on the left side of the warehouse under the mercury
lights. In addition, the death toll from the bombing had reached almost
fifty men, mostly soldiers, who Manesh noted had been stripped naked and
dressed in civilian clothes for the cameras. A video crew was already on
the way from Baghdad. Insanity!

Manesh walked toward the warehouse. The captain had said that during the
bombing nobody had been able to spot the attacking craft. He walked past
the warehouse and approached the fallen chain-link fence. More
questions, he reflected. The fence had collapsed not from bombs but from
plastic explosives. Was the attack a combined assault?

Possible, he admitted, remembering the captain's story about the
destroyed Kurdish caravan traveling in four-wheel-drive vehicles. In
addition, there was the digital timer found a hundred feet from the
fence. It was possible that some of the rebels had not perished during
the caravan incident, or perhaps not all of them left in the vehicles.

Some may have stayed behind. Was that connected with Hassoud's death?

Was Hassoud interrogating Kurds? Perhaps, he conceded, but the bombing
contradicted the story. If it was before the rescue, I could understand
that, but bombing during the rescue? Why risk it and kill your own
people? In order to get some answers, Manesh had sent troops in every
direction to root out anyone that looked suspicious and also to look for
tracks. Whoever did this could not be too far away, he decided while
staring at the workers fixing the fence. At least the young captain had
enough sense to prioritize the repairs. The electric fence had to be
operational immediately. Without it, the large complex was too
vulnerable.

He headed back to the command post. He wanted to give Saddam an update
on the situation. BAGHDAD.

Day Four. 0050 Local Time.

Saddam Hussein slowly hung up after listening to the update from General
Manesh. Although Allahbad had been hit, the underground facility
remained fully operational. In fact, in a few hours another missile
should be deployed.

The attack had been unfortunate, but now he felt even more certain of
the success of Allahbad. The chances of the Americans hitting the
complex again were negligible. Actually, after the American media got a
hold of the film footage of the dead civilians planted at the factory,
American public pressure would keep Clinton from attacking the complex
again.

Saddam smiled at his good fortune. Clinton was indeed making life easier
for the Iraqi leader. By destroying the factory on the surface, the
American president had actually made Allahbad a safer place for the
development of Iraq's nuclear weapons program. SOUTHERN IRAQ.

Day Five. 0100 Local Time.

In spite of the enormous pain in his wounded leg, Lieutenant Kevin
Dalton walked for most of the night carrying Khalela in his arms. He
would stop every fifteen minutes, and after carefully laying her down on
the cold sand, he would sit down next to her, massage his leg and
briefly close his eyes. Then he would get up, pick her up, and continue
south, guided by the stars alone. His body ached badly. It seemed as if
every time he inspected his body he found another cut or bruise. But
something else had slowly happened to him. His body wounds no longer
seemed to matter as much as they had two days before. None of them were
fatal. He would recover.

The night was cold, quiet, almost peaceful, except for the noise from
sporadic explosions. These had slowly faded away while he put as much
distance between himself and the compound as his exhausted body would
allow.

He kept Khalela's face close to his. Her steady breath against his cheek
was the only source of pleasure that he could rely on to keep his legs
moving. To keep the agonizing pain of his gunshot wound from stopping
him. He couldn't afford to stop just yet. He had to continue. Had to get
away from this place. And so he went, step after agonizing step, holding
the woman he loved close to him. Once in a while, a light moan would
escape her lips. She would shiver and brace herself like a child, only
to slowly relax her body in response to his warm embrace and soft
whispers in her ear.

"You're safe, Khalela. You're with me now. It's going to be all right,"
he repeated over and over again whenever her body shuddered.

Two hours before sunrise, drenched in sweat in spite of the desert's
cool temperatures, Kevin got as far as he humanly could. He looked
around, saw several large rocks to his left, and walked toward them. He
selected a spot in the center, shielded in every direction, even from
the sky, and sat next to Khalela under a ledge that protruded from the
largest rock.

Kevin checked his plastic canteen: it was half full. He unscrewed the
cap and took a small gulp, which he rolled around inside his mouth
before swallowing. Then, leaning over, he put a hand behind Khalela's
head and lifted it gently as he brought the lip of the canteen to her
lips. He put a few drops on her lips and smiled. They parted, welcoming
the refreshing liquid. He let her have a few more drops, and she slowly
ran the tip of her tongue in between her lips.

Kevin put a few drops of water on his hands and softly stroked her
forehead and cheeks. She moved her head from side to side and inhaled
deeply. He brought the canteen to her lips once more. This time she took
a small sip, paused, and took a second sip.

Satisfied, Kevin screwed the cap back on the canteen and replaced it on
his belt.

He carefully moved her to the side and put an arm around her back,
letting her rest her head on his shoulder before he fell asleep.

SALMAN Asai) AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Five. 0545
Local Time.

Lieutenant Chico Delgado leaned back against the nose-wheel of his
Tomcat and stared at an orange sun slowly looming over the dusky
horizon. He checked his watch. It was barely six in the morning.

"Howdy, Chico. What're you doin' up so early? Couldn't sleep?"

Delgado turned around and faced a smiling Lieutenant Colonel Richard
Kramer. "Hey, Longhorn. Got up an hour ago and couldn't go back to
sleep."

"Couldn't sleep from all the excitement of the mission?" Delgado waved
his right hand. "No, no, it's nothin' like that, man. Last night was a
piece of cake."

"Oh, so it's somethin' else, then?"

"Yep. Guess you can say that." He sighed.

"Feel like talkin' about it?"

"It's a long story. You don't wanna-"

"Heck, there ain't much else to do 'round here anyway." He sat next to
Delgado. "So tell me. What's botherin' ya?"

Delgado ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "It's a buddy of
mine ... my frontseater, Lieutenant Kevin Dalton."

"Oh, is that the poor son'a bitch that got shot down a few days back?"

"Yep. You heard what happened?"

"Just that he went after some Mig when he wasn't supposed to and now
he's in a shitload of trouble."

Delgado laughed. "That just about wraps it up. He's in a shitload of
trouble all right."

"So, where's he now?"

"No one knows where he is. He was last seen next to a river a few
hundred miles from here. Close to the area I was dispensin' chaff over
last night."

"You mean he's still out there?"

"Either that or he got captured."

"C'mon! With all 'em fancy choppers we got, couldn't we use a couple of
'em to go and search for the poor bastard?"

"Colonel Halston tried twice, but they ran into some bad luck. Two Pave
Hawks got shot down."

"Well, shit! Try again! What's the matter with these people?"

"Mierda! That's what I say, man, but truth of the matter's that none of
those pendejos seems to be givin' a shit 'bout him."

"I just can't fuckin' believe that. Why didn't Halston send a third
party after this guy?"

"He wanted to, man, but that hijo de puta Draper gave him so much shit
about the first two failed attempts that Halston canned the idea until
he made contact."

"You're shittin' me."

"No, man. Honest-to-God truth. Draper threatened to elevate the issue on
any more rescue attempts. The pendejo Draper didn't use those exact
words, but that was the message he conveyed to Halston."

Well, that guy ain't gonna last out there. For all we know he's already
a POW, or he's ... ah, shit, sorry, Chico. Didn't mean to ..

Don't worry about it, man. I understand." Delgado glanced at the horizon
once more. The sun was almost fully up. He frowned. Part of him, the
logical side, told him that Kramer was right. There was a good chance
Kevin had died from exposure if the Iraqis had not gotten to him first.
His emotional side, however, refused to listen to logic and desperately
struggled to hang on to the hope that Kevin, by some miraculous
circumstance, had managed to survive and escape capture.

"You okay, partner?"

"Man, I hope those pendejos make up their minds quick." Delgado rubbed
his hands together. Temperatures were in the fifties. He ran his hands
over his exposed forearms.

"So do I, pal, I hate to ... Say, what in the hell is that on your arm?"

Delgado looked at Kramer, who pointed to his forearm.

"Oh, that's a tattoo of a bulldog's head."

"Shit, I can see that. Why a bulldog?"

Delgado smiled.

SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Five. 0900 Local Time.

For Kevin Dalton, the Mig-29's cannons blasted so close to him that he
jumped in his sleep. Then Khalela's voice made all the pain go away.

"Kevin? Wake up, Kevin, you're shaking. Kevin? Are you all right?"

The sun's piercing beams stung his eyes as he slowly opened them. The
light ... it was too bright.

"Kevin, it's me, Khalela. Are you all right?"

The words again. Softly spoken by her. Slowly, Kevin opened his eyes and
saw the dark silhouette of her face. She momentarily blocked the sun.

"Khalela ... Khalela! You're awake!" He bolted up too fast and got
dizzy.

"Lie back. If you did what I think you did last night, you had better go
extremely easy on that leg."

Kevin looked down and saw the bloodstained sand around his leg.

"You bled a lot last night. You could have died during the night," she
said.

Kevin noticed she had torn off the left leg of his Iraqi uniform and
used the cloth as bandage.

"You always come in handy," he said with a grin.

"Well, you almost killed yourself last night."

"I had to ... wanted to do it."

She stared him in the eye. "Kevin, all I remember was the-"

"I know. I saw it."

"You mean you actually saw me strapped to-"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you everything, but before I start I need something to
drink."

She picked up the canteen, unscrewed the cap, and brought it to his
lips. He smiled.

"What's so funny?"

He didn't answer and took a few sips. Then he cleared his throat and
began to speak, his voice calm and serene. He told her everything from
the moment he saw her being taken away to the moment he laid her down
next to him and fell asleep. Her intelligent eyes never left his. The
more he talked, the deeper her stare became. When he finished, she
turned away.

"You dumb American!"

Kevin was shocked. "What? What are you-"

"Why did you do it? Don't you know there can never be anything between
us?"

Kevin was taken aback by her words-so direct, so cold, so straight to
his very soul. "Why do you say that? I did what I did because I happen
to care a great deal about you and because somehow I know deep inside
that you also care about me. Because I know you would have done the same
for me. Now, you tell me what's so bad about that!"

"What is so bad is that you are right. I do care about you, even though
it kills me to say it!" For the first time Kevin saw tears rolling down
her face. She quickly turned away.

He got up and slowly limped toward her, hugging her from behind. Kevin
put his lips to her ear. "Why? What's the big deal? You're a person,
too. You have a right to have feelings like anyone else, and right now
those feelings are for me. I know that. It shows in your voice, in your
smile, in the way you look at me-"

"Stop it, Kevin! You do not understand!" She tried to pull away, but he
held her even tighter.

"No. I'm not letting you go. You're stuck with me whether you like it or
not. I love you, and there's nothing you or anyone else can do about
that. We may never get out of this, so I want you to know how I feel.
Those are my feelings. My feelings. Do you understand that? And they
tell me-" Suddenly Kevin realized she wasn't fighting him anymore. She
leaned her head against his shoulder and placed her arms over his.

Slowly, Kevin turned Khalela around and placed both hands on her face,
mesmerized at her natural beauty. He gazed into those light green eyes
and lost himself in them. She closed them as his lips gently met hers.

MISSILES ALLAHBAD PROCESSING COMPLEX, SOUTH OF AN NAJAF, IRAQ. Day Five.
0935 Local Time.

Risha Hassan approached Dr. Radsul Sakkar with her latest collection of
completed progress reports. Three additional missiles had been deployed.
Sakkar was pleased. The operation was going smoothly in spite of
yesterday's attack. It was imperative that the remaining missiles be
deployed at once. Sakkar felt certain that a fully functional Allahbad
would have a dramatic effect in the course of Iraq's history. The enemy
will definitely think twice about continuing their savage bombing ifiraq
proves to the world that it has the means to launch a devastating
nuclear strike.

s akkar nodded approvingly as he flipped through the pages. Most of the
stations had reached phase four of the six required before deploying a
missile. He signed each page and gave the stack back to Risha, who
smiled and walked away.

He headed for the cafeteria on the other side of the assembly line,
where breakfast was served starting at seven sharp. His stomach growled
at the thought of tea and fresh fruit. He had not eaten a thing since
lunch the day before.

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Five. 1000
Local Time.

Colonel Peter Halston left the monotone humming of the air-conditioning
unit inside the undersecretary of Middle-Eastern Affairs' tent. It had
been the only sound in the room after Halston, during the course of a
discussion on the bombing mission, had casually mentioned his plan to
send a new search party after Lieutenant Dalton to Kenneth Draper. The
Air Force general had mumbled a few incoherent words and turned around.

Haiston squinted as he stepped away from the tent into the bright
morning sun, frowning at Draper's attitude. The general had pretty much
told him to do as he pleased, but warned him that if more people were
lost in the process, their blood would be on Halston's hands. In the
process? Halston thought, trying his best not to get too upset. Draper
would be out of his hair soon.

He reached for his sunglasses and quickly put them on as he walked
toward the communications tent.

"Pete!"

Halston turned around and saw Robert Bourdeaux running toward him with a
large envelope.

"Yeah, Bob? What is it?"

"Just got new satellite photos from NPIC."

"And?"

"You want to be sitting down when you see this. I'm still trying to
figure out how to explain it."

Both men walked inside the communications tent and headed for the table
in the rear. Bourdeaux sat on one side, opened the envelope, and
searched for a photograph. Halston was seated across him.

"C'mon, I was just looking at it." His index and middle fingers went
through the inch-thick stack of eleven-by-fourteen shots. "Oh, here it
is." Bourdeaux pulled a photo from the bottom of the stack.

"All right, this is Allahbad as of six o'clock in the afternoon
yesterday. Notice all the activity and the trucks entering and leaving
the complex. Also, most of the trucks drove straight into the
warehouse."

"All right. I take it these are the trucks and the large warehouse
you're talking about, right?" He pointed at small dark rectangular
objects in what appeared to be a road of some sort that ended in a large
black rectangle in the center of the complex.

"Exactly. Now, notice that there is no other way to access that
warehouse but from the front. There are buildings on each side and the
processing plant in back."

"Got it. So?"

"Well, the next set of photos are still from roughly the same time
frame. I have twenty of the shots taken in a thirty-minute lapse. In
them I counted a total of fifteen large trucks going into the warehouse
and driving out. That's fifteen in thirty minutes. Quite a few, if you
ask me."

"What are you getting at?"

"Bear with me. I'm almost there. A couple of hours later, our boy goes
in and boom! Blows the place to pieces. Then morning comes, our K-H-11
goes snap, snap, snap, and voila! Guess what we get?"

Haiston exhaled impatiently as the CIA analyst pulled another photo from
the stack and set it in front of the colonel. Over seventy percent of
the warehouse was now exposed, revealing'nothing! The warehouse's
empty!"

Yep.

"Where are the rockets? What about the cargo that those trucks had been
constantly delivering to the warehouse?"

Bourdeaux nodded at Halston's reaction as he himself searched for a
reasonable answer. What if they were using the trucks to circulate
cargo?

Maybe they brought in raw material of some sort and drove out with
assembled products. Bourdeaux quickly discarded that as a possibility,
realizing no one could be that efficient. It was impossible for him to
believe that the trucks came and went without leaving something in that
warehouse. Warehouses exist to store inventory. Besides, he remembered
the people at NPIC informing him about how they had tracked the route
taken by the trucks. They all had returned to the coast, where they
loaded back up with boxes. So, where did the cargo go?

Bourdeaux opened his eyes and noticed a grin on Halston's unshaven face.
"Pete?"

Halston grinned broadly. "All right, Bob. I think I know where all the
hardware is."

Bourdeaux snagged the bottle of Tylenol and swallowed two caplets
without any water. "Why do I feel that you're about to tell me something
that's going to upset me?"

"I think that we're just scratching the surface here, and I literally
mean scratching the surface. I think that warehouse's just a place to
secretly unload trucks."

"Yes, and ... ?"

"I think that after unloading, their shipments are taken  ...
underground."

Bourdeaux raised an eyebrow. "Either that, or ..

Halston nodded. "Or we bombed the wrong target."

Bourdeaux inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and rubbed the tips of his
fingers against his forehead.

Suddenly, Bourdeaux opened his eyes. "Shit! I got it!"

Halston looked at him quizzically. "Huh?"

"If you're right, Pete, and the Iraqis have gone underground with their
project, then we should be able to tell based on the level of activity
and the materials hauled to the site during its construction."

Halston regarded him for a few seconds before saying, "But, Bob,
Allahbad is several years old."

Bourdeaux smiled. "Ol' buddy, the NPIC keeps archives of everything
collected by those KR-11s. All images are stored in disk or backed up to
magnetic tapes. They have records going back to the early sixties."

He began to walk toward the communications tent.

"Where are you going?" asked Halston.

"To make a call. I'm gonna get the satellite records for the period when
Allahbad was built, and also when the other milk factory near Baghdad
was built. That will give us a reference. If indeed there's something
below the sand, we should be able to tell."

THE WHITE House. Day Five. 0930 Local Time.

"So, where are the missiles?" asked President Bill Clinton as he stared
at the KH-11 photos spread on top of his desk.

CIA Director Craig Kettler slowly shook his head. "We don't know, Mr.
President. The warehouse appears to be empty."

Studying the director through half-shut analytical eyes, the president
suddenly felt cold. The implications of missing the missiles were quite
complex. Several possible scenarios unraveled in his mind. One was the
possibility of Allahbad being nothing but an elaborate diversion by
Saddam to keep Clinton looking in the wrong place. This meant that the
Iraqi leader had succeeding in fooling everyone, and that the actual
nuclear development was being held elsewhere. But what about the CIA
data? The director had given him a brief from Bourdeaux, summarizing how
the cargo of numerous trucks had been unloaded inside the warehouse and
probably taken to an underground facility.

He checked his watch and waited for Draper's call. President Clinton
never made a decision without first listening to all his advisors.

SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Five. 1730 Local Time.

Kevin Dalton and Khalela Yishaid walked silently side by side under an
overcast sky. He had wanted to wait until nightfall before advancing,
but after listening to what she had discovered at the complex, Kevin
decided that they had to reach the border immediately to warn his people
of the terrible miscalculation made when bombing the Allahbad facility.

Kevin frowned as his mind slowly accepted the facts. He now believed
that the bombs had little chance of destroying the facility. According
to Khalela, the Iraqi laboratory was too deep. She had also mentioned a
service elevator ... Kevin's lips curved upward. Elevators ... perhaps
there is a way. According to what Ishmael had related to Khalela before
the Iraqis captured them, the elevators stopped working the moment the
alarm went off and the shaft was automatically blocked, thus isolating
the lab from the outside world. Kevin decided that there had to be some
control mechanism that rolled some sort of steel plate across the shaft.
How thick can that plate be? he asked himself, realizing that even if it
was a few feet thick, it would definitely be easier to penetrate than
trying to blast through dozens of feet of concrete. A few well-placed
bombs, and bingo- we could reach the bottom ... Kevin stopped walking.

"What is it?" she asked as they reached the first few trees. The
Euphrates was only a mile or so away.

"I think I heard something behind-"

"Oatala!"

Kevin spun around and was welcomed by the stinging pain of a stone
striking him on the shoulder. "Aghh!" He fell to his knees.

There were several Iraqi women behind them with rocks in their hands
staring at him defiantly. Kevin grabbed the Smith & Wesson Model 39,
held it up in the air and slowly laid it on the ground.

"Khalela, tell them we're the good guys."

"No use. All they see is the uniforms."

"Dammit, try!"

Khalela spoke a few words in an apologetic tone, but the response from
the women was unanimous.

"Qatala!"

"What in the hell does that mean?"

"To kill."

Kevin got to his feet and walked in their direction.

"Kevin wait! Don't do-"

"American! I'm an American! Friend! Khalela, translate!" Kevin continued
walking toward them as Khalela spoke. The women took a few steps back.

Suddenly a woman threw a rock at him. He ducked in time. Another rock.
"Aghh, shit!" Once more he fell to his knees. His right thigh was
burning. Khalela ran to him.

"No, Khalela! Stay back!"

Once more he managed to get up to his feet and put his body in between
the women and Khalela as a rock hit him on the forehead. Disoriented, he
fell with his hands on his face.

Khalela grabbed the Model 39, flipped the safety, and pointed it at the
woman.

"Don't shoot them, Khalela!" he screamed as blood covered most of his
face.

The women stepped back and just stared at them. Kevin sat up and crawled
back toward Khalela. "If they ... think we're the ... bad guys it can
only mean ... they're villagers, probably Kurdish ... sympathizers. We
can't ... can't shoot them." Pain hammered his head. He began to feel
light-headed and everything began to spin slowly.

One of the women took a step forward. Khalela leveled the automatic at
her. The woman raised her hand. She clutched a stone. Khalela tightened
her index finger on the trigger.

"No!" A voice came from behind the group of women.

Kevin spotted the shape of a young girl running in their direction.
"Sadiq, sadiq!"

Kevin saw through blood and tears the face of the raped girl they had
rescued back at the village. She leaned down, embraced him, and started
to cry.

Khalela lowered the Model 39. The women dropped their stones. Kevin's
vision grew cloudier until he blacked out.

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Five. 1740
Local Time.

"What is this about an underground lab? Are you serious?" Draper asked
in a soft tone, a hint of concern in his voice.

Bourdeaux didn't answer right away; he wanted to be in full control of
himself. Then he cleared his throat and began explaining to the
undersecretary that all the information collected to date tended to
support that theory. There was no other plausible explanation than that
the weapons were underground. Otherwise, where else could the cargo on
those trucks be going? In addition, Bourdeaux told him about how Halston
had checked with the base's explosives experts. They believed there
should have been a lot of burned, twisted hardware in that place. But,
as Bourdeaux indicated with his finger, the photographs showed an empty
warehouse. Before Draper had a chance to say anything, Bourdeaux
continued and pointed out that adjacent buildings had been leveled
during the bombing. Their exposed interiors revealed nothing of
significance. In summary, all Desert Star had accomplished was the
destruction of an empty warehouse and a milk factory. Bourdeaux closed
with a mention of his current project with the NPIC, pulling archives of
the region to compare the construction of Allahbad with that of a dairy
products plant near Baghdad.

Draper remained silent for several moments. Bourdeaux placed all the
photographs back inside a plastic bag.

"I'll discuss this with the president shortly."

"I've already sent my analysis to the CIA. I believe the director is
briefing the president as we speak."

"Well, the president's entitled to hear the opinion of everyone
involved. The way I see it, you approached this administration with what
was in my opinion a weak theory about Iraqis building long-range
missiles in that factory. You only had circumstantial proof, nothing
concrete. Not even one photograph of an actual missile. But the
president and everyone down the line believed your story enough to send
an F-117A to blow the place apart. Now here we are. We followed your
hunch and destroyed Allahbad, and now what? No missiles? All we've got
is a destroyed milk factory. You know what that means, right?

The only weapon at Allahbad is a missile loaded with propaganda warfare.
I'm certain that in another day or so the first photos of the destroyed
Allahbad will make their way to Western papers, and if the Iraqi
government does at Allahbad what it has done at other destroyed targets,
civilian casualties will be high. Now, for proven military targets
that's acceptable, but for a milk factory? Do you realize what kind of
embarrassment that would be for the Clinton administration? Not counting
the fact that we have now telegraphed our intentions to Saddam. If he is
assembling nukes elsewhere, he will definitely be on full alert now."

Bourdeaux was fuming. The Silver Rat was doing what he did best: turning
the tables. Tactically switching sides at the first sign of trouble. He
was about to respond when Draper raised his right hand, palm facing
Bourdeaux.

"Enough, Bob."

Relax, Bob. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Don't let the fucker get to you.
Draper had played him like a grand piano. He knew the old man would go
to the president and remind him how much against an air strike Draper
had been from the start-particularly if the Iraqis made a big deal out
of the incident. Why? Why must this happen to me? This is exactly the
kind of shit I tried to prevent from happening. Damn that bastard!

Relax. Relax. Keep your cool. Don't blow it. There's a way out of this.

Draper checked his watch. "Now, if you don't mind I would like to
discuss this matter with the president."

Without another word, Bourdeaux turned around and walked outside. The
tarmac was still warm, even an hour after dark. He reached the
communications tent. Halston approached Bourdeaux. "Well, how did it go
in there?"

Bourdeaux sighed.

THE WHITE HOUSE. Day Five. 1000 Local Time.

The president hung up the phone. Draper's position was radically
different from that of the CIA. The undersecretary firmly believed the
United States had made a serious mistake in bombing Allahbad, soon to be
made public by Saddam Hussein. In addition, Draper encouraged the
president to direct the CIA to continue looking for a suspicious
complex, because somewhere out there Saddam Hussein was probably
assembling his nukes. Draper also conveyed his fear that an Iraqi
nuclear retaliation for the destruction of Allahbad was very possible.

The president shook his head at the difference of opinion. While waiting
for Draper's call, the president had a short phone conversation with his
secretary of state, who had told him that the Iraqi delegation had
walked out of the talks when they got word of the attack. Tariq Aziz had
warned the secretary of state that the United States had drawn first
blood, and that Iraq was in a position to respond in kind. The secretary
told Clinton it was wise not to act immediately, as suggested by the
CIA, until the agency had more pieces of the puzzle. He also warned the
president to get ready for a strong Iraqi propaganda war. The secretary
felt that Saddam Hussein would waste no time in using the destroyed
complex to his full advantage.

Clinton compressed his lips into a tight frown. Did the United States
bomb the wrong target? Or was Allahbad an underground facility? Was
Saddam going to retaliate? When? How? Where would he attack first?

Tel Aviv? Riyadh? Kuwait City? Should America strike Allahbad again?

Perhaps they should carpet bomb the entire zone outlined in Bourdeaux's
map? Or was the map itself a fake? What if Draper was correct in his
guess that the Kurds were double agents? Then again, what if Bourdeaux
was the one with the right facts? What if the missiles were there all
along, hidden beneath the surface of the desert? What if the historical
data Bourdeaux and the NPIC were pulling from archives of the region
showed that Allahbad was indeed an underground facility?

Then again, what if the data showed just the opposite?

Possibilities. There were all sorts of possibilities. And while everyone
in his administration played out the different scenarios, presented
their points of view, collected more information, and claimed to have
the right answers, the president knew that somewhere out there Saddam
Hussein was about to become the leader of the world's newest nuclear
power. And so far the Clinton administration had not done a damned thing
to stop him. SOUTHERN IRAQ.

Day Five. 1900 Local Time.

Kevin woke with a pounding headache. He briefly scanned the murky room
before closing his eyes again. A single candle burned next to the bed.
He massaged his right temple with the tips of his fingers and felt the
bandage on his forehead. He lifted his head and saw a new bandage over
his leg wound. He wore only his underpants. His knees were skinned
again, and the pain from the bruises on his back would not go away. He
sighed. His body was in bad shape.

He tried to remember the last thing he had seen before that stone had
knocked him out. He closed his eyes and visualized the face of the young
Iraqi girl approaching him after he had fallen. Then he remembered
Khalela lowering the automatic before he blacked out.

He moved his legs to the edge of the bed and managed to sit up. The
bruises on his shoulder and leg were not as bad as he first thought. He
ran his fingers over them. There was something on them-some sort of
clear cream. Perhaps some Kurdish miracle medicine? Suddenly, his vision
tunneled and he became dizzy. Quickly he lay back down on the bed,
realizing that he had probably lost a great deal of blood between the
leg and the head wound.

He shifted his gaze to the dark side of the room, where he guessed the
door was. Someone had just come in.

In the flickering candlelight, Kevin watched Khalela slowly approach
him. Her face glowed in the yellowish light. Her eyes were fixed on his.

"Khalela, how long have I-"

She brought a finger to her lips as she stopped by the end of the bed.

Kevin slowly moved to the side to let her sit down on the edge of the
narrow bed, but instead she just stood there staring at him. Kevin
reached down for the blanket to cover himself.

"No, Kevin."

He stopped and looked back at her. She was unbuttoning the shirt of her
blood-stained Iraqi uniform with a look of careful thought on her face.
She let the shirt fall by the side of the bed. Next were the pants,
falling to her ankles.

Kevin was taken aback by her beauty. The enchantingly soft curves of her
body moved in his direction. Slowly, carefully, she lay next to him. Her
body was inches from his. She put a leg over him and pulled him closer.
Kevin felt her against him and was overwhelmed by her warmth. Close,
very close. Her body against his. Her lips meeting his. Softly at first,
a mere brush, then with growing intensity as they explored one another.

For minutes they moved in unison. The sound of their own passion was the
only reality inside the room. Kevin let it all go, pushing all logical
thoughts aside as Khalela's slender frame shivered under him. Nothing
mattered any longer for Kevin Dalton. Nothing. The Migs, the gunshot
wound, the missiles, the burning Pave Hawks, Mcdeere, Campbell,
Lancaster. Khalela seemed to drain all of it away, drawing him closer,
holding him tight. Her hands caressed his back. Softly rubbing fingers
circled around bruises Kevin had received what now seemed like a
lifetime ago. Kevin struggled to absorb it all. He wanted to remember
every detail: the flickering candlelight, her tender lips, her firm, yet
soft body. All in so much contrast with the nightmare that had been his
life since he'd pulled the ejection handles, yet all so very real. He
was here, now, today. The woman he loved, only a stranger yesterday,
melting her body with his in a rapture he prayed would never end. He
wish he could freeze time, remain like this forever, live in an
imaginary world lit by the yellowish glow of that candle, but he felt
the it, end coming. Kevin had not been with a woman in months and was
not able to control his body, quietly shuddering as he reached climax.
Khalela felt him and hugged him.

They lay there in silence for a long time. Her head rested against his
shoulder as her fingers played with the hairs on his chest.

"Kevin?"

"Yes?'

"Nobody has ever saved my life before, except once when I was very
young.

"Well, let's call it even, then."

"No, you do not understand. It was not my idea to save you from those
choppers. It was Ishmael and Abdul who asked me to help you. They were
planning to take you back to their CIA contact and trade you for
weapons."

"Ishmael and Abdul," he mumbled. "I'm going to miss those two."

"Pay attention," she snapped, and she gently pulled on his chest hairs.

"Ouch! All right, all right. You have my undivided attention."

"Like I was telling you, I did not volunteer to-"

"I know that, Khalela, and you shouldn't feel bad about it. You didn't
know who I was."

"But wait, there is more. At first I even questioned Ishmael if it was a
good idea to take you with us. I was opposed at-"

Kevin rolled on his side and looked down into her eyes. "Don't you know
that I love you? It doesn't matter what happened before. I was a
stranger to you, and you to me. What I did back at the complex was
because I loved you and couldn't bear the thought of you dying. I had to
save you or die trying. Do you understand now?"

She nodded. Kevin saw a smile. It was followed by a few seconds of
silence.

"Khalela?"

."Yes?"

"You do know I have to go back and warn my people about-"

"Why? From what you have told me, you do not want to go back. Come with
me to Israel. No one will bother you there."

"I can't do that ... not just yet anyway. Look, I'm sure the information
that we have is worth something to the CIA."

"Why take the chance when you could just as easily come with me?"

"Because it's not right. I have to face the consequences of what I did.
I can't run away from it forever. I chased that Mig after being told to
knock-it-off. I did it because I felt in my heart it was the right thing
to do. Now, again, I must follow my heart. I must go back."

She nodded as a single tear rolled down her cheek. He brushed it away
with his lips. Khalela pulled him closer.

"I love you, Kevin Dalton."

Again, their bodies became one, but with familiarity now. Once more,
Kevin fell away from the chaos that was his life. Her smell, her touch,
her eyes-he knew it would all stay with him forever as her warm body
moved with a hungry intensity. Kevin felt in control now. He stared at
her. She closed her eyes and tilted her head as a soft moan escaped her
lips. Slowly, he continued to build her up to a climax until he felt her
quiver from an uninhibited joy that suddenly engulfed him, too. It could
have been minutes or hours. Time was in suspension. Her body eventually
relaxed. He eased himself alongside her body. She closed her eyes and
her breathing steadied. Kevin, too, slept.

Time passed. Kevin heard her speak. Puzzled, he opened his eyes and
looked at her. Shivering, Khalela had tensed in her sleep.

"Oh ... please, don't ... Suleima ... oh, God."

Kevin rubbed a hand against his five-day stubble. Suleima?

She continued to quiver.

"Khalela, wake up. Wake up. You're dreaming."

Khalela opened her eyes and inhaled deeply. In the dark, her eyes found
his and, placing her head on his shoulder, she quietly wept.

Kevin was taken aback. What is this? Who is Suleima? Respecting her
privacy, Kevin simply rubbed a hand over her hair, shoulders, and back
as Khalela continued crying for another minute. Slowly, she pulled away
and sat up, rubbing her wet eyes and staring at him once again. Her long
hair fell over her shoulders, grazing her breasts.

My God, you are gorgeous, Khalela.

"Feel like talking about it?" he asked. She closed her eyes and nodded.

Kevin pulled her back down. She turned her body sideways, placed a leg
over his, and rested her head on his shoulder. Her hands curled up in
front of her face, fingers toying with the hairs of his chest.

As he stared at the wooden ceiling, Khalela began to speak. Her voice
seemed distant, monotone, cold. He learned about Suleima, her late
sister. Kevin closed his eyes and listened. Listened to her pain, her
sin. Understood the memory Khalela had carried with her from that horrid
day long ago. Understood the fire that drove her: the fire of
retribution, of guilt, of anger. Slowly, her voice dropped to a whisper,
then her words became sporadic, until finally Kevin felt her breathing
steadying.

He lifted his head and noticed her closed eyes. She had fallen asleep.
He did the same.

SALMAN Asai) AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Five. 2200
Local Time.

Once again, Robert Bourdeaux sat across from Colonel Peter Halston in
the deserted mess tent. He rubbed his forehead and stared into his
friend's bloodshot eyes. Bourdeaux was mad at himself. He felt there was
something he should be able to do, but what? Draper had him pinned down.
All Bourdeaux could do was continue collecting and analyzing data until
he got a response from the White House. The NPIC was making some
progress pulling out all the tapes from the satellite image archives,
but that was just the first step of a long, tedious task. Operators
still had to load the images into the computers, pan to the areas of
interest, zoom in, and electronically clean them up before they could be
of any use to Bourdeaux. Image enhancing was a science in itself.
Computer operators trained specifically for this task would adjust the
amount of contrast between the objects of relevance and their
backgrounds, sharpen all images out of focus, eliminate glare from
reflections of the sun, enhance shadowed objects, and sometimes even
combine pictures taken in the infrared and visual spectrums to enhance
certain patterns. This was an enormous task, even for the army of people
assigned by the director of the CIA under presidential order to work on
this. According to his contact at the NPIC, the first set of shots would
be ready for the analysts in the morning.

At least there had not been any nuclear attacks yet, which could either
mean that Saddam had not yet assembled his nukes, or maybe he just
wanted the Americans to sweat it out for a while longer.

Frowning, Bourdeaux shifted his gaze to the entrance and spotted Delgado
and Kramer. Amanda Green and Orlando Delaney, the Apache helicopter
pilot, were also with them. All four looked in his direction. He waved
them over.

Halston and Bourdeaux went through a few introductions.

"Don't think I've met you, Colonel," said Kramer, extending his hand
toward Halston. "Name's Richard Kramer, but call me Longhorn."

Bourdeaux couldn't help but smile.

"Pete Halston ... Longhorn," he responded, getting up and shaking
Kramer's hand.

"Pleasure to meet ya, Pete."

"Bob, this is Lieutenant Delgado," Haiston said.

"Yeah, I remember you from yesterday evening," Bourdeaux said, pumping
Delgado's hand.

"Nice to meet you, sir."

"And I take it you two have already met Captain Green?"

"Hell, we're all good buddies. Right, sweetie?" said Kramer.

Amanda looked at Halston, shook her head, and closed her eyes.

"And I believe all of you know Captain Delaney?" asked Halston. Kramer,
Delgado, and Bourdeaux shook his hand.

A manda sat next to Halston. Delgado, Kramer, and Delaney sat across the
table on Bourdeaux's side.

"Sir," Delgado started, "has the decision been made to continue with a
search?"

"It was left at my discretion, Lieutenant," responded Halston. "Right
now, I'm leaning toward continuing."

"In that case, sir, I would like to be granted permission to stay here
for a few days and help out."

"You're not under my command, Lieutenant. You'll have to get
authorization from your CO. That's Commander Mcdeere, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. But I can tell you right now he's not gonna go for it. Not
only is his position clear on this issue, but he needs a RIO to fly the
jet back to the Ranger.

"In that case, there's not much I can do."

"Sir?" Delgado asked with a slight grin.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"You wouldn't authorize a sick pilot to leave base if the flight surgeon
grounded him, right?"

"That's right, Lieutenant, I-You want to stay that bad?"

"Nothin' else matters right now, except findin' Kevin Dalton, sir. I owe
him that much. He saved my life over the Gulf the day before he was
bagged. We had two missiles fired at us. He shook them off and knocked
down the enemy jet, sir. If he's still alive, we gotta find him and pull
him out."

Bourdeaux looked at Halston, who raised his eyebrows and nodded
slightly.

"All right," Halston said. "We'll start at the last place we spotted
him: the village where we lost the second Pave Hawk."

"Sounds good," said Delaney.

"Very well," said Halston. "But before anybody leaves I want you, Bob,
to get me some overhead shots of the area. I want to make sure there
isn't going to be a welcoming committee this time around."

"All right," said Bourdeaux.

"Are we all in agreement, then?" asked Halston, "Yes, sir," responded
Amanda as Kramer, Delgado, and Delaney nodded.

"Say, Delgado?" asked Halston.

"Yes, sir?"

"How do you plan to get the flight surgeon on your side? You look
healthy to me."

Delgado smiled. "It ain't me that's gonna be sick, sir."

"It's my CO, sir. Commander Mcdeere's about to get a severe case of the
shits. I'll have to stay, of course, since no one can fly that F-14

back to the Ranger except him. Guess I'll stick around till he's
better."

like a loyal junior officer." Delgado unzipped a pocket in his flight
suit and pulled out a clear plastic bag. It was filled with a white
powder.

THE LAWS OF CSAR Laws are silent in time of war.

-Cicero

SOUTHERN IRAQ.

Day Six. 0700 Local Time.

Wearing a sweat-soaked light brown shirt and pants the villagers had
given her in place of the Iraqi uniform, Khalela Yishaid reached a spot
halfway up the hill an hour after sunrise. Her wary eyes scanned the
uneven, rocky terrain before moving forward one last time. She spotted
the small village at the foot of the hill. Arid plains extended as far
as Khalela could see, lazily fading away to the horizon in the hazy
early morning sky.

She held Kevin's emergency radio in her right hand. He had told her that
its range was probably thirty to forty miles on level ground, but could
go as far as two hundred miles from a high point. She inspected the
black, handheld set and pulled out the antenna. She felt a weight in her
right pocket-the backup batteries Kevin had taken from his dead RIO.

Kevin had also explained to her the day before that there were two modes
of operation. In the first mode, the small radio transmitted an
emergency beacon in Guard, a frequency constantly scanned by American
forces-and also by the Iraqis. In the second mode, the unit behaved like
a regular two-way radio. She selected the latter and brought the unit to
her lips.

"Any Allied unit. Wolfpack Two One Four Alpha," Khalela said, using the
call sign that Kevin had mentioned the day before.

No response.

"Any Allied unit, this is Wolfpack Two One Four Alpha."

She tried a few more times but got no response. If her calculations were
accurate, the Saudi Arabian border was around 150 miles away.

She switched the radio off and decided to wait until she reached the top
before trying again. She shifted her gaze upward toward the summit and
estimated it would take her another hour to reach it. She wiped the
glistening sweat off her forehead; temperatures had already reached the
eighties.

As she kept climbing, Kevin's face grew in her mind's eye. Last night
had been special. The smell of him remained with her, fooling her senses
into believing she was still lying next to him in the narrow but cozy
bed where they had spent the earlier portion of the night silently
loving one another. Even after they had fallen asleep, his arms kept
hugging her from behind as they lay on their sides. Then the nightmare
had returned and she had seen Suleima and the Arabs, but Kevin had
quickly woken her up, and she had told him about her past.

She sighed, not believing she had finally shared that experience with
someone else. Kevin was indeed very special. He understood the way she
felt. Understood her pain. Slowly, she had fallen asleep again. Every
now and then, she remembered briefly waking up but quickly falling back
to sleep, feeling his warm breath against the back of her neck; his arms
tightly wrapped around her chest; a hand comfortably snuggled between
her breasts. Hours later she had gotten up, dressed, grabbed the small
radio from the belt holster of his pants, and headed uphill.

Khalela knew he had to go back, and in a way she believed she understood
his reasoning, which was driven by the same internal fire she had seen
in his eyes from the day they had met. It was that passion for doing
what was right that had caused her to fall in love with him. A love
Khalela knew could not be. She was Mossad, a professional. Just like
Kevin, she knew she had to go back to her world. Last night she had
allowed her feelings to get in the way of her mission. Now that the
professional in her was back, Khalela knew what had to be done.

In his sleep, Kevin rolled to the other side of the bed. It was empty.
He quickly opened his eyes and scanned the room.

"Khalela? Khalela, are you here?"

No response.

Frowning, he sat up, half asleep, and picked up his underpants lying
next to the bed. There were a pair of brown pants and shirt hanging from
a chair across the room. He walked over and put them on.

A noise behind him made him turn around. It was the young Iraqi girl.
She was carrying a basket filled with round, thin discs of bread and a
few dates. She smiled and extended the basket to him.

Kevin smiled back. He took the basket and placed it on the bed. She
turned around and started to walk away.

"Ah, listen  ..." She stopped and turned around. "You don't know what
I'm saying, do you?"

She tilted her head and gave him a puzzled look.

"Khalela ... do you know where she is?" He pointed around the room.
"Khalela?"

She shook her head.

Kevin pointed at her. "You know, woman ... this tall. Long hair  ...
Khalela ..

The young girl smiled and pointed out the window.

Kevin looked outside the small opening in the wall but saw no one. He
shook his head. The girl frowned and walked up to the window. She raised
her hand and pointed at the hill across the ravine, then left the room.

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Six. 0745
Local Time.

Robert Bourdeaux sat across from Halston in the back of the
communications tent going over one of two sets of satellite images that
had just arrived from the NPIC. The first set was from a KH-11 pass
yesterday afternoon. Bourdeaux and Halston would use those to try to
decide where to start looking for the downed Navy pilot. Amanda, Kramer,
and Delgado would be there shortly to go over the images.

The second set of photos were selected archived images of the region for
a period of two years starting almost nine years ago. The two-inch stack
contained images for both dairy products facilities which, as it turned
out, began construction at roughly the same time. The difference,
however, was that the facility near Baghdad had been completed two years
after construction started. At Allahbad, only the large warehouse and
part of the plant in back were finished by the time the factory near
Baghdad was already distributing milk and other dairy products. The
images from the past six years had not arrived yet, but from what he
could tell so far, Bourdeaux saw what seemed to be a nonstop flow of
cement trucks going in and out of Allahbad. And just as in the recent
photos from Allahbad that he had been analyzing for the past few days,
all the trucks drove straight into the large warehouse and back out. The
photos were spaced out by two weeks, and in every single shot the area
around Allahbad was packed with the traffic of cement trucks, lumber
trucks, and trucks carrying steel beams and other materials. All going
into the warehouse with full loads and coming out empty.

"Well, they're either building an underground facility, or that
warehouse has the world's thickest foundation."

Bourdeaux nodded. "Let's wait for the second set of archived images, and
then I'll write another letter to the director."

Twenty minutes later, Robert Bourdeaux spoke to the assembled personnel
leaning over the satellite photographs on the table in the rear of the
communications tent as Peter Halston stared into space, thinking. The
colonel had already seen the photos a few minutes ago and simply sat
back, letting Bourdeaux give Longhorn Kramer, Chico Delgado, and Amanda
Green a lesson in satellite surveillance photograph interpretation.

Bourdeaux showed them several shots of the village and pointed out that
the irregularities in the buildings probably meant that they were
damaged to some degree, most likely due to artillery shelling. All three
leaned over the table when he pointed to several circular shaded areas
around the village and told them that those were craters left by shells
that had missed the target. Bourdeaux ventured to say that they were no
older than a few days. Amanda's report that the village had appeared to
be undamaged during the rescue attempt supported the statement.

Bourdeaux leaned closer and ran the index finger of his right hand along
the center of a photograph while he explained that the shaded areas
represented three houses, none of which had any roofs; only sections of
the walls were left. The CIA analyst then pulled out one of three
photographs and showed them the particular coloration and shape of a few
large craters.

"All right, now compare those craters to these two over here."

Bourdeaux pointed at two smaller craters of a lighter shade of gray than
the larger ones he had just shown to them.

"Why are they smaller?" asked Delgado as he moved his head back and
forth between the two photographs.

"Well, let's take a closer look." Bourdeaux pulled two photographs from
the stack. They were enlargements of each type of crater. The large
crater had perfectly round edges as well as several contour lines from
the edge to the center. The greater the number of contour lines, the
darker the crater would look from the air. The lines, he explained,
indicated depth, which meant that those craters were created by a very
powerful shell. The smaller craters, on the other hand, did not have as
many contour lines, which meant they were shallower and gave the
impression of being a few shades lighter. The reason for the shallower
craters was not a less powerful shell but a different type of shell. One
which not only created a smaller crater, but a crater with imperfect
edges. Bourdeaux concluded that the shell had to be nonconventional.

He waited for a reaction. Kramer's head snapped up first. The colonel's
eyes narrowed and his thick mustache dropped at the ends.

"Where are you drivin' at? You mean nonconventional as in  ...
chemical?"

Bourdeaux nodded. "I'm afraid so. Just as.a final check, the NPIC did a
large-scale analysis of the surface elements in the area."

All three stared at Bourdeaux. "And?"

"Well, why don't you see for yourself." Bourdeaux pulled out a color
photo of the village. It looked like an array of bright colors without
much distinction between the outlines of buildings and other landmarks.
Halston placed a transparency over the photo. The clear foil had the
outline of the village drawn on it. The surface analysis photo showed
the bluish hues of the large craters and the deep red color of the small
craters.

Bourdeaux continued. "If you notice, the leftover elements from the
conventional shell, which usually involve a glycerin agent, show up as
blue. That's normal. It's also normal to see a defined outline of the
color over a light brown background. What's very abnormal is the red
coloration of the smaller craters, and the fact that surrounding the
crater, the color slowly fades to a light rose, which eventually fades
into the light brown shade."

"Yeah, but the fadin' only occurs after a while." Kramer's finger
circled the rose-colored areas, most of which overlapped one another.

"That's right. That red coloring indicates the presence of a blister
agent."

"Mustard gas?" t9

Bourdeaux lifted his eyes off the photograph. "Yep.

"Holy cow! Looks like 'em bastards cooked the entire village."

"That's right," responded Bourdeaux. "I definitely advise against going
anywhere near that village, which would prove useless anyhow. I doubt
there's anyone left there."

Delgado sat on his chair and rubbed his bulldog tattoo. "So, what's
next?"

"Good question, Lieutenant," Halston said from behind the group. "We
need to seriously reconsider our initial approach of merely following
the F- 1 4 pilot's footsteps. I doubt that would get us anywhere." All
four turned around and stared at the colonel.

"What about adjacent villages, sir?" asked Amanda.

"Possible," responded Halston, "but there are over two dozen villages in
that area. He could be anywhere."

"Damn!" fumed Delgado as Kramer shook his head.

"Hold on," said Halston. There was obvious frustration in his tone.
"What about your Kurdish friends, Bob? Do you think they might be able
to help out?"

"Sure. They'll help us for the right price, but the problem is that they
might not be back for days. I don't think we have that much-"

"Colonel Halston?"

Bourdeaux stopped in mid-sentence as a young sergeant approached them.

"Yes. What is it?" answered Halston.

"You better come over, sir. An F- 1 5 pilot just picked up a Guard
transmission from Wolfpack Two One Four."

Halston bolted up as the heads of the other four snapped in the
direction of the sergeant.

"What? When did this-" Halston began to say.

"Just now, sir. AWACS is trying to establish comms with her."

"Her? Who? What in the hell is going on?" Halston followed the sergeant
to the front of the tent, where a bank of several communication radios
stood. The colonel grabbed a headset equipped with a microphone as the
others gathered around him.

He looked at the sergeant. "Get me the AWACS mission commander on the
secure line ASAP!"

The sergeant nodded and moved to speak with one of the radio operators.

Ten minutes later, Halston placed the headset down. "What do you think?"

"Well-handled, sir. You bought us some time to think this through,"
Delgado responded.

"Personally, I don't like it. I think it could be a trap. So what if the
woman knows Dalton's call sign? We all know the Iraqis monitor the
channel, too. They could have picked it up from one of the earlier
conversations," noted Kramer. "Or what's worse, he could have been
captured and forced to reveal that information."

"Perhaps, Colonel, perhaps. But right now that's the best lead we've
got," Halston said. "We're gonna have to play it carefully from this
point on. It's too strange not to be genuine. I mean, why have a woman
make the call if it's a tra . If it's genuine, the Iraqis heard the call
too, p and they're probably heading in."

"That's right," Delgado added. "And the pendejos are a lot closer than
us."

Halston rubbed his eyes. They had to move fast.

AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Six. 0815 Local
Time.

General Abunnasr Manesh drank tea from a cup and watched the large radio
unit in front of Fassan Tabriz. The conversation had come through
clearly. Although his English was not as polished as it had been when he
studied at a British university, Manesh had managed to pick up most of
what was said.

He now stared at the radar screen. It showed the origin of the call. He
smiled. It was his lucky day. Payback time.

SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Six. 1000 Local Time.

Khalela followed the same path that she had taken on the way up. it
slowly veered down the side of the hill until reaching a small cluster
of trees by a shallow river that flowed next to the village. She was
puzzled. The conversation had not gone at all how she had expected it to
go. The Americans are getting overly cautious, she reflected as she
emerged from behind the shadow of a large rock and the noon sun
momentarily blinded her. She'd had a hard time convincing the Americans
that she was calling on Kevin's behalf, even after giving them the call
sign that Kevin had casually mentioned to her during the past few days.

The Americans had been reluctant to believe her story and requested to
talk to Kevin himself. She had told them that Kevin was hurt and had
lost a great deal of blood. She did not think he could make the climb.
She was then asked to turn off the radio to conserve the batteries, walk
down to the village, and in exactly three hours reactivate the radio.
When she had argued that the radio was not powerful enough to reach the
border from the village, she was simply told to comply with the request.

Khalela wondered how Kevin would react when he found out what she had
done. But she'd had no choice. There was no way she could get Kevin to
the border without a four-wheel-drive vehicle. She had to seek help.

She entered the narrow forest at the foot of the hill and began to make
her way through the sparse vegetation, emerging on the other side a
minute later. The shallow stream was next. Its surface flickered as the
relatively strong current flowed around the village. She smiled in
relief as her feet came in contact with the cool waters, going up to her
knees at the deepest place.

Khalela cupped a handful of water and brought it to her lips. Her mouth
was dry and pasty. She drank twice more before she continued walking
toward the other shore. The village was less than a hundred feet Kevin?

She saw Kevin standing at the edge of the village, looking in her
direction. She sped up her pace and approached him.

"You mind telling me what that was all about?"

"Yes, Kevin, but first let us get under the shade. It was a long walk."

Khalela walked past him and toward a large tree in the small clearing in
the village. He followed her.

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Six. 1200
Local Time.

Captain Amanda Green walked by the Apache helicopter tied down on the
ramp across the tarmac, roughly a couple of hundred feet from where the
Grumman Gulfstream IV transport stood next to a refueling w truck. Two
mechanics sat on one of the wings, keeping a hose in place.

She gave a quick glance at her Pave Hawk next to the Apache before
shifting her gaze back toward the menacing-looking Apache. Captain
Orlando Delaney and his gunner, Lieutenant Steve Rizzo, were already
performing the preflight inspection, checking all air surfaces, rotors,
and the extensive warload under the stub wings. She looked back to the
third, and last, Pave Hawk rescue helicopter. Her pilot had already
started the preflight.

Amanda frowned. Although they had wanted to send more than just one
Apache to cover the rescue, the group had reasoned that the fewer the
craft going in the less chance of detection. As a safety measure,
though, Halston had requested the support of two A-1 Os, which would
meet the rescue party at the site.

Here we go again. She continued toward her craft.

Orlando Delaney finished inspecting the exterior of the craft and
glanced at Rizzo, who was performing a last-minute check to ensure the
powerful antitank missiles were safely locked in place.

"Hello, Lieutenant. How does it look?"

"All right. Got four quad pods of Hellfires. Figured the Hellfires could
also handle any air-to-air incidents," responded the blond lieutenant,
who was almost as slim as Delaney.

The black captain eyed the quad pods of Hellfires, each capable of
incapacitating any Soviet-made tank. Two were probably enough for full
destruction. The Hellfire could also be used as an air-to-air missile.
Although such usage of an air-to-surface weapon was not necessarily
recommended by the manufacturer, Delaney knew that the missile would
home in on any target being tracked by the Apache's laser designator
system. He smiled. Sixteen Hellfires could keep several enemy tanks
busy. He climbed up the ladder and pulled the rear door open. Rizzo got
in front.

He eased himself into his seat and instantly felt right at home. He
belonged inside the Apache. Before glancing at the instrument panel,
Delaney put on his helmet and flipped the master switch to power up the
avionics and the weapons control system, thirteen embedded minicomputers
interconnected through a closed-loop multiplex system. All thirteen
minicomputers fed into the heart of the full digital solution of the
Apache's weapons system brain, a high-speed hybrid fire control
computer.

Delaney connected the helmet display unit to the right side of his
helmet and rotated the miniature CRT display and monocular optical relay
in front of his right eye to link the integrated helmet and display
sighting system to the Apache's TADS, the Target Acquisition and
Designator Sight. This would enable the Apache's minicomputers to see"
what Delaney saw, and vice versa. He checked the craft's fuel level and
nodded in satisfaction.

Delaney went down the checklist, taking almost twice as long as usual.
He didn't want anything to go wrong with this mission. In addition to
the warload under the stubwings, the aircraft housed a potent 30mm
M230AI chain gun. The gun, which utilized a rotating bolt mechanism
electrically driven through a chain drive, hung unfaired from a
hydraulically driven turret under the Apache between the gunner and the
pilot.

Delaney finished the preflight check and threw the engine starter. It
didn't take but a few seconds for both General Electric T700 turboshafts
to come to life. As Delaney watched the engines accelerate past seven
hundred RPM, the spring-loaded clutch connecting the main rotor
transmission to the turbines slowly began to engage due to the
centrifugal force from the rotating turbines. The centrifugal clutch
drum applied friction to the main rotor transmission, which in turn
began to move the stainless steel/fiberglass rotor blades. He watched
the rotating blades slowly melt into a clear disk as he added throttle
while keeping an eye on the engine/rotor speed information displayed by
the vertical scale instruments located on the left side of the control
panel. He advanced throttle to achieve takeoff RPM. Unlike most
helicopters, the Apache did not have the twist grip@-type throttle
control at the end of the collective lever, instead sporting
side-by-side throttle handles on the left control console. He glanced
over to the Pave Hawk.

From the Pave Hawk's copilot seat, Amanda Green watched Poole add
throttle, collective, and rudder while keeping the cyclic centered. The
large rescue craft slowly left the tarmac. She spoke into the voice
activated headset of her helmet.

"Hawkeye Zero One, Tango Six Five, airborne."

"Hawkeye, " Amanda heard Kramer's heavy Texan accent through her
headphones.

Delgado put his headset down and looked at Kramer. There wasn't much
they could do but hope Halston's plan worked. He glanced around the
noisy, dark interior of the Grumman E-2C Hawkeye and spotted Halston
walking down the narrow corridor from the cockpit.

"I just talked to the pilot. We finally made it to twenty thousand. I
don't think we'll have any problems reaching him from up here."

"I hope not. Otherwise we'll be back to square one," Delgado said. "How
long before we-"

"Five minutes."

"I hope he's there," Delgado said.

"Don't worry about it, pal," Kramer said, placing a hand on the Hispanic
lieutenant's narrow shoulders. "If he's alive, he'll be there."

Delgado sat back in a chair facing an incredible array of electronic
gear. He knew the Grumman E-2C was a designated AEW, airborne
early-warning aircraft. Their sole purpose during combat was as control
craft, keeping an "eye" on the overall battle and feeding vital
information on enemy forces to the Allies.

The two operators to Delgado's right worked on tracking the Apache and
the Pave Hawk.

Halston looked at Delgado. "It's time."

Delgado put the headset back on.

"You know what you want to say?"

Delgado nodded.

Kevin checked his watch and reached for the radio next to the bed before
heading outside with Khalela. He flipped it on.

"Wolfpack Two One Four Alpha, is anybody there, over?"

"Crackers, Chico.

Kevin froze. Chico? How in the "Crackers?"

Kevin put both hands on the radio. "Crackers here."

"What's your situation?"

"Leg wound and minor concussion, but I can walk, and even run if I have
to."

"Glad to hear it. I was afraid you were gonna be in worse shape than the
Doberman I've got tattooed on my arm."

Kevin narrowed his eyes. Doberman? Then he understood and smiled.

"This is not a trap. Nobody's forcing me to contact you. The woman who
called earlier is on our side. It's not a Doberman but a bulldog.

"I think we're all breathing a little easier over here now. Be ready to
leave in niner zero mikes.

Kevin smiled. An hour and a half "One Four Alpha."

Vaya con Dios, hermano."

Kevin switched off the radio and together with Khalela walked back
inside.

Khalela looked at him. "Crackers?"

Kevin smiled. "We all get nicknames in the Navy. Actually mine's not
that bad compared to others. Say, ready for a short helicopter ride?"

"After you."

The young Iraqi commander inspected the village through the telescopic
sights of his T-72 Soviet-made tank. He spotted a few small houses, but
nothing out of the ordinary.

"Hold position. Firing system check."

The driver cut back power to the V-12 diesel engine, bringing the
90,000-pound vehicle to a halt two miles from the village. The moment it
stopped, the gunner trained the laser rangefinder on the closest house
and tested his equipment. The advanced computer system quickly generated
a firing solution with over ninety percent first-round hit probability.
He repeated the test, changing targets. The system responded flawlessly.
Satisfied, he gave his commander a thumbs-up.

The commander waited. His instructions were to hold until the rescue
helicopters came into view. He ordered the infantry following the tanks
to spread out in case an American aircraft spotted the armored vehicles.
Within a minute, the forty soldiers following the tanks in trucks and
jeeps split in different directions. Two jeeps headed up the hill
overlooking the village while others remained in the clearing but kept a
safe distance from the tanks. Two trucks loaded with soldiers slowly
approached the village from the north. They stopped just under a
thousand feet from the nearest building.

AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Six. 1245 Local
Time.

General Abunnasr Manesh pounded his fists on the table when Fassan
Tabriz told him that they could only send one Hind to escort the tanks
and infantry. He could not believe that most of the Hinds in the area
were grounded due to lack of spare parts.

Manesh screamed at Fassan for a few minutes and ordered him to find
another Hind from somewhere and get it airborne immediately, even if it
meant cannibalizing parts from another helicopter. He stormed out of the
communications bunker only to be welcomed by a rush of hot air. He
sighed and raced across the runway. Squinting under the bright afternoon
sun, he spotted the Fulcrum peacefully standing inside the shelter. He
shifted his gaze to the left and saw mechanics sitting around in a
circle..

"I need to take it up immediately!" he shouted as all three ground crew
members bolted to their feet and raced toward the Mig.

"You cannot, sir. Your weapons systems are not operational."

"What? Everything was working yesterday! What in the hell is going on?"

"I do not know, sir. During the daily inspection of the system we
discovered problems. I am afraid you cannot use the missiles until we
get the spare parts from Baghdad."

"For the love of Allah! Is there anything around here that works?

"The cannon, sir."

"What?"

"The cannon is operational, and we just finished reloading it, or  ...
"Or what?"

"Or you can use one of the Mig-2 Is." Manesh glanced at two old Mig-21
fishheads neatly parked behind the Fulcrum. He saw that they had a full
arsenal of old air-to-air missiles under the wings.

"Both jets have just been through a systems check and are fully fueled.
They are ready to go, sir."

Manesh exhaled as his gaze went back and forth between the fast and
extremely maneuverable-but under-armed-Fulcrum and the old and
slower-but fully armed-Fishbed. Damn! Actually, the Mig-21 was a good
turning machine, but it still wasn't a Mig-29.

He made his decision and walked toward the Fulcrum. "Remove all of the
weapons under the wings, at least that will give me the edge of
maneuverability!"

"Yes, sir!"

Manesh went up the ladder and started his preflight check while the
ground crew raced back and forth with steel carts quickly unloading the
heavy weaponry. He closed his eyes and prayed to Allah that his 30mm
cannon did not fail him.

SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Six. 1300 Local Time.

"What do you think is going to happen to you, Kevin?" Khalela asked as
they both waited by the southern edge of the village.

"Not sure. I guess the Navy's going to bring charges against me for
insubordination. I'm also pretty certain that they're going to blame me
for the RIO's death."

"What would that mean?"

"Most likely I'll be permanently grounded and given the worst
assignments until I decide to quit. Not a very comforting scenario."

"Why not come with me to Israel? We can always use good pilots like-"

"I don't think I can do that, Khalela. I love my country, and by God I
love the Navy. The only reason I'm so good at what I do is because my
heart, my entire self, is devoted to flying Tomcats. You take patriotism
away, and all that's left is mechanical skills without passion, the
internal fire that makes me push those birds to the outer limits of
their capabilities. The Israeli Air Force is tops, but they're fighting
for their country, not mine. Sorry, but I don't think I would be any
good in your Air Force."

Khalela put a hand to his cheek. "That's why I love you, Kevin Dalton."

He smiled and blushed.

"I'm glad I-" he began to say, but stopped. Instead, he turned around
and faced the southern horizon.

"What is it?"

He raised his right hand. "Wait. Listen. Hear it?"

"Yes, I hear it. They're here."

The dark green beast darted at 150 knots at a mere twenty feet above
ground. It smoothly followed the imperfections of the terrain in
response to Captain Green's gentle cyclic movements, as she focused her
total concentration on keeping her Pave Hawk below radar. Major Poole
had given her the controls ten minutes ago.

Delaney's Apache was at her twelve.

Captain Orlando Delaney risked a backward glance and checked that the
rescue chopper was at the same altitude. There was no use in his
maintaining such a dangerous flight level if the Pave Hawk blew it by
flying higher. He grinned. The Pave Hawk's pilot is good, he thought as
he noticed the rescue helicopter roughly a half mile behind. This time,
Delaney was not taking any chances. The landing zone would be clear
before that Pave Hawk got anywhere near the place.

He turned his attention back to his craft, barely spotting the blurry
outline of the village through the heat wave. He checked his coordinates
and smiled. It had taken him ninety minutes to get here from the base,
and so far there had been no problems. He wondered where the A- IO
contingent Was.

"Sandy, Sandy, Dragonfly Niner Two, over."

"Niner Two, Sandy. On station in three mikes."

"Roger, Sandy." Delaney switched to Guard. "Wolfpack Two One Four Alpha,
this is Dragonfly Niner Two."

"Niner Two, Wolfpack Two One Four Alpha. We got a visual on you. "Where
are you located, One Four Alpha?"

"South side of the village, at eleven o'clock. You can't miss'tally. Do
you have a Tally, Six Five?"

"Roger, Niner Two, "responded Amanda as Poole took control of the Pave
Hawk.

Delaney watched the rescue chopper turn toward them as he started
circling the village. "Do you have the rescue helicopter in sight, One
Four Alpha?"

"Affirmative, Niner Two.

"Start moving away from the-" He stopped speaking when he in spotted the
bright flashes in the distance.

"Incoming! Clear out, Six Five. Pull out, now! Get out of firing range!

One Four Alpha, take cover!"

Kevin grabbed Khalela's hand and raced across the clearing toward the
ravine. He felt the earth tremble under his feet as powerful shells
impacted the houses on the northern side of the village. Almost
immediately havoc set in. Kevin watched women race away from the village
with children in their arms.

"Bastards!" He slowed down.

"There is no time for that, Kevin! We must reach the foot of the hill
and find cover!" She pulled him forward.

"But the village, the women-"

"They have been taking care of themselves forever! They'll reach another
village by night. We can't help them now. Let's go!"

He sped up. As they reached the ravine, he looked back and spotted the
rear of the Apache. It was heading toward the source of the blasts.

"Enable laser designator!" Delaney commanded as he turned his head
toward the lead tank. TADS automatically projected alphanumeric
information and flight symbology onto a combining lens, instantly
superimposing it on Delaney's integrated helmet and display sighting
system. In a flash he had a target solution with range.

"Target acquired," responded Rizzo as he used TADS to train the laser
gun, mounted on the nose turret of the Apache, on the first tank.

"Select Hellfires!"

"Ready!" responded Rizzo.

"Fire!"

The solid-propellant rocket motor of one Hellfire came alive, thrusting
the eighty-pound missile to just under Mach 1 in seconds.

Delaney threw the cyclic left, forcing the Apache into a tight left
turn. The nose turret rotated in the opposite direction as it
automatically kept the laser trained on the lead tank.

The Hellfire's tracking electronics immediately locked on to the laser
and sent corrective electronic pulses to the small servomotors that
controlled the tail fins of the five-foot-long missile, making minor
flight adjustments in compensation for the tank's sudden evasive
acceleration.

Delaney glanced backward and smiled when the twenty-pound warhead blew
the turret off the Iraqi lead tank.

"That's a kill, Captain!"

The young Iraqi commander was the first to react after the tank to his
left was blown to pieces.

"Clear out! Smoke! I need smoke!"

The driver floored it. The T-72's powerful diesel responded by
accelerating to maximum speed. He then injected diesel fuel into the
exhaust outlet on the left side of the hull. Thick smoke engulfed the
tank.

Delaney watched the other three tanks moving in different directions.
One disappeared under a cloud of smoke. He knew the other two would soon
do the same.

Delaney selected a new target and fired another Hellfire: another score.
He turned to the third tank. Smoke was beginning to cover its rear.

"Niner Two, Six Five. You got a Hind at your six!" Delaney heard the
warning call from the Pave Hawk. He looked and spotted a Hind roughly
two thousand feet behind and to their left. He applied full power and
dropped to just above the ground. The Hind stayed with them.

"He's getting into firing position!" said Rizzo.

Silently cursing the Hind, Delaney swung the cyclic from side to side,
forcing the craft into a tight zigzag. TADS informed him that the port
engine was overheating, which meant that even the infrared suppresser
system could not reduce the overheated gas plume from the port engine
enough to bring it below the infrared lock-on threshold of the Hind's
missiles. Bad news.

"Missile in the air!"

The Apache's AN/ALQ-144 Infrared Counter Measures jammer, tried to
defeat the homing of heat-seeking missiles, kicked in. At des that
moment, an electrically-heated ceramic block, mounted atop the' aft
portion of the upper pylon fairing, modulated intense heat radiation
away from the craft as the Apache approached a hill at 180 knots. As the
IRCM presented the missile with a number of new hot targets, the
AN/ALE-39 countermeasures dispensing Delaney's hand went to system. In
the following three seconds, ten flares left a box strapped to ubwing,
giving the missile yet another target. the outer side of the port st
"It's going for the flares!"

Delaney let go of the breath he had been holding. He reached the hill
and kept his craft glued to its side as he turned the corner. With the
Hind temporarily out of sight, he lowered collective, cut back throttle,
pulled back the cyclic, and pushed the right pedal as hard as possible.

against his seatbelt as the chopper nearly came to a halt He slammed
spun around. He released rudder and left his craft in a hover less an
than ten feet over the ground.

He smiled as the Hind came into plain sight at full speed. It dashed
halfway across his field of view before the pilot realized Delaney's
maneuver. The Hind quickly turned away, but not before Delaney had a
laser-homing Hellfire streaking after it.

Delaney watched the smoke trail propagate directly toward the departing
Hind. Twenty pounds of explosives hit the exhaust of the left engine.
The strong blow pierced through the thick armor and severed the rotor
from the shaft. The rotor slashed through the air out of control as the
heavy body of the craft plummeted to the earth, exploding on impact.

Suddenly, the blasting started again as the remaining two tanks renewed
their bombardment of the village. He also noticed the trucks moving
toward the village.

Delaney applied throttle, collective, and cyclic. The Apache hurtled
forward. There were two clouds of smoke, each about three hundred feet
in diameter. He frowned. There was a tank in each one. "Switch to
infrared!"

"Switching!" Rizzo switched control of the Apache's laser target
designator from direct-view-optics mode to forward-looking infrared
sensor mode. The gunner trained the heat-seeking sensor on the closest
cloud. TADS did the rest, automatically training the laser on the heat
source in the center of the cloud. "Got him!"

Fire!"

General Abunnasr Manesh watched the bright flash from the American
helicopter. The missile went straight to the center of the smoke cloud.
The powerful explosion that followed told him the American missile had
found its target. He glanced at the other two destroyed tanks and the
burning Hind. His eyes filled with anger as he flipped his jet on its
back and pulled the stick, descending and accelerating in full
afterburners; his finger caressed the trigger on his control stick.

Manesh saw another flash followed by another missile. The last tank was
destroyed. He brought his nose to bear on the offending helicopter and
carefully sweetened his shot, bringing the illuminated crosshairs to his
quarry. The six-barrel 30mm gun started vomiting rounds at a rate of one
thousand per minute. The first burst was off to the right, the second to
the left. He smiled as the third burst brought smoke from the rear of
the American helicopter. Manesh pulled out of his dive, did a
one-eighty, and came back around for another pass.

"Engine failure. Shutting down starboard engine!" Delaney glanced back
but couldn't see a thing. He eyed his altimeter. Three hundred feet.
"What in the world fired at us?" he asked, moving his head in all
directions to acquire whoever had fired at them.

"Don't know, Captain. Can't get a visual!"

Delaney headed back to the hill. His craft felt extremely sluggish under
the power of a single turbofan.

"It's a fucking Mig!" said Rizzo. "Ten o'clock high!"

"Got it!" He halted the Apache and turned it in the direction of the
incoming Mig.

"Hellfire selected!"

"It's firing!" The Mig hurtled directly for them with its cannon
blasting.

"Fir- Delaney's words were cut short by the thundering 30mm projectiles
hitting the upper section of the armored canopy of the Apache. The
Armorlite glass, rated to sustain up to 23mm fire, managed to deflect
the first few dozen rounds before collapsing. Rizzo's head snapped back.
A round had pierced his helmet.

"Aghh!" Delaney felt the stinging pain of a bullet crashing through his
right shoulder. Ignoring the agonizing pain, he switched to manual and
placed the incoming Mig in the crosshairs of his helmet sighting system.
He fired.

The Mig broke hard to the left as the Hellfire left the outboard pylon
and accelerated to just under Mach 1 Manesh put the craft in a vertical
climb and began dispensing flares and chaff. The missile flew past the
decoys. He topped out of his climb at fifteen thousand feet. The missile
was gone. He had outrun it.

Kevin watched the entire episode from the foot of the hill. He wasn't
surprised that the Mig had managed to escape destruction. The Apache had
only been able to fire a subsonic air-to-ground missile at the Mig. But
at least it had broken the Mig's initial run on the combat helicopter.
The Pave Hawk, which had remained out of sight the entire time, finally
began to come around the clearing. He watched the wounded Apache also
approaching.

"Let's go, Khalela."

"Wait, Kevin. Look!" She pointed at the sky.

Kevin glanced up and held his breath as he saw a Mig-29 with green
stripes across the wings.

"Son of a bitch! That's the same damned Mig again!"

"Is that the one ... ?"

"Yes! That's the same bastard who shot me down!"

Through the dirt and debris that swirled upward as he hovered ten feet
over ground, Delaney also noticed the Mig turning back. The rotor wash
blasting down through the large opening in the top of the canopy made
his movements difficult, as if he were pulling g's. The excruciating
pain from his shoulder spiraled up as he pulled back the cyclic and
added rudder. The Apache turned around and faced the incoming Mig once
more. This time he moved his head in the direction of the Mig. Sensors
on both sides of the cockpit detected his helmet's motion and passed the
information to the Hughes 30mm chain gun, which swung in the direction
of the Mig. Delaney pressed the trigger on the cyclic. The gun started
firing at a rate of over six hundred rounds per minute. He mentally kept
track of the number of seconds as he quickly began to deplete the
1,200-round ammo box. Once more he centered the Mig on the crosshairs of
his helmet and activated a Hellfire. He saw muzzle flashes coming from
the Mig. The ground beneath his Apache boiled with the incoming rounds.

The turret-mounted laser following his helmet sight splashed the Mig
with invisible light.

Now!

The missile blasted out of the tube and tracked toward the Mig. Delaney
continued firing the cannon.

Manesh released the trigger and pulled hard left. Once more he put his
craft into a vertical climb and glanced back as the altimeter shot past
fifteen thousand feet. The missile was gone.

He scanned the skies, but could not find it. Puzzled, he leveled off and
started his third run.

Orlando Delaney frowned. He knew it was a desperate attempt to take on a
Mig using a slow Hellfire, but that was all the air-to-air defense he
had left. Once more he watched the Mig coming back, its left wing alive
with flashes. He pointed the Apaq;p9.1's nose in its direction, aimed
and fired both the machine gun and.! Hellfire. His craft trembled
suddenly as the last of the 30mm rounds left the red-hot muzzle. The
Hellfire continued to track as he kept his sight on the incoming Mig.

Delaney spoke into his radio. "Sandy, Sandy, Dragonfly Niner Two, where
in the hell are you, over?"

"Niner Two, Sandy Eight Oh. Be there in thirty seconds.

It was getting to be a tiresome exercise for Manesh. Frustrated, he
pulled back on the control stick and applied full power. The Mig
projected upward in full afterburner.

"Six Five, Niner Two, over."

"Go ahead Niner Two, " responded the Pave Hawk.

"It's now or never. Come into the clearing and pick them up!"

"Roger.

Delaney watched the warning lights on his control panel. Flying single
engine, he turned back toward the village.

With the missile gone, Manesh turned around and headed back down to the
clearing for the fourth time. The American attack helicopter was slowly
flying toward a second helicopter approaching the clearing. He decided
to go after the larger helicopter and swung the stick in its direction.
He fired.

The world seemed to explode around Amanda Green. As a torrential shower
of glass fell on her, she caught a glimpse of Poole hanging limp in his
harness, a bullet wound in his chest. The sight was quickly followed by
intense pain in her right thigh. She looked down and saw her own blood
soaking her flight suit. Oh, God. I'm hit, too!

Breathing deeply, she placed her right hand on the cyclic and left on
the collective lever while pressing her feet against the rudder pedals
an action that sent a jolt of pain up her body from her wounded leg. She
forced her mind to ignore it. She didn't have a choice; she had to keep
the Pave Hawk under control as they approached the village. Just as
suddenly as it started, the attack stopped. She scanned the instrument
panel and saw a few warning lights, but both turbines were undamaged.

Manesh cursed his bad luck as the last of his rounds left the muzzle of
his cannon. He had depleted his load. As he pulled out of the dive, he
caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A-IOS! Two jets were
closing in on him.

Cursing his bad luck, he invert6d, dove for the ground, and headed home
in full afterburner.

Kevin Dalton saw the rescue chopper coming back around just as two A-10s
flew overhead. He shook his head, knowing that the subsonic Warthogs
would never catch up with the Mig-29. He centered his attention back on
the helicopter. This time he didn't say anything, simply pulling Khalela
by the hand as he raced forward.

"Wait, where are-"

"This is our chance. Look"' he shouted, pointing to the large clearing
north of the village. Several trucks and jeeps were moving in their
direction. "Iraqi infantry. Tanks never go anywhere alone! The soldiers
will be here in no time!"

They raced away from the hill and toward the chopper, which was hovering
between them and the ravine a foot or so above ground. Kevin felt
burning pain in his leg as he kicked hard against the sand. He didn't
notice when Khalela let go of his hand.

Kevin didn't turn around. His entire self became focused on reaching the
helicopter. The gunner started firing its mini-gun over Kevin's head to
slow down the approaching Iraqis. Two men dressed in fatigues and
holding M-16s jumped out of the helicopter and ran toward him, signaling
him to hurry up. But his legs refused to go any faster. The excruciating
pain from his gunshot wound slowed him. Sand swirled up and stung his
face as he reached the rotors.

"Hurry, hurry!" one of the men yelled as he stepped in front of the
chopper, leveled his weapon at the Iraqis, and began firing.

Kevin kicked at the ground one final time and propelled his body up in
the air. His shoulder stung as he landed on the armored floor of the
craft. He felt disoriented, confused. He stared at the gunner, who wore
a helmet with the green visor down.

"All right, let's go! Let's go!" Kevin heard him shout. The two men with
M-16s jumped back in the helicopter just as it left the ground. The
gunner went back to the mini-gun, spraying the area with bullets to
cover their departure.

"No, no ... we can't go yet," he managed to say, but nobody heard him.

In a frenzy, Kevin shot up and jumped toward the door. One of the
soldiers grabbed him in time.

"Easy, Lieutenant. Calm down, you're almost home, sir."

"No, you don't understand. The woman ... we must wait for the woman!"

"Woman? You mean her?" He pointed at a person running across the stream
and into the hills to the west of the village. She stopped briefly and
turned.

Kevin stared at Khalela, who raised her hand and waved.

"She stopped halfway and raced toward the river'sir."

"No! It can't be! She wants to come ... damn! She must come!"

The gunner joined the soldier, and between the two of them they pinned
Kevin down.

"We can't turn around, sir. This place is too hot!"

Kevin didn't respond. His mind was in turmoil. Why, Khalela? Why did you
do it? An overwhelming sense of despair nearly engulfed him, crushing
the only shred of sanity he had left. But she was gone. She had chosen
to stay behind.

"You're going to be all right, Lieutenant. I'm going to take a look at
that leg and try to stop the bleeding. Relax. You're safe now."

Kevin barely heard him. It didn't matter. He tried to say that he didn't
care anymore, that he wanted to be left alone, but he couldn't. He felt
cold, light-headed, alone. The back of his head hit the floor as he
stared at the faceless gunner who seemed to be moving farther and
farther away down the narrow tunnel that appeared to engulf everything.
Then it all faded away, and there was silence.

Gunfire exploded around Orlando Delaney as the ground troops closed in
on his hovering helicopter. He had wasted too much time watching the
Pave Hawk rescue the Navy pilot. Bullets now ricocheted off the Apache's
underside.

"Sandy, Dragonfly Niner Two. Where in the hell are you?" he shouted
while throwing the cyclic forward to get away from the guns.

"We got you covered. Coming around to clean the area!"

As Delaney watched, the pair of Warthogs made a wide sweeping turn
around the clearing before firing their cannons. Suddenly, his cyclic
shook, seemingly out of control. Delaney applied maximum friction to his
collective and throttle settings and used both hands to try to bring the
cyclic under control. He knew exactly what had happened. The rounds had
damaged the sensitive electronics of the digital automatic stabilization
system, the electronics designed to enhance overall maneuverability by
augmenting Delaney's control inputs. Without the enhancing system,
Delaney's commands were sent in raw form to the Apache's control
surfaces, making the craft harder to control.

The firing continued for a few more seconds until the Sandies got there.
Delaney swung the cyclic left and approached a hill. Another group of
Iraqis was now firing at him. He lowered to ten feet AGL and began to
zigzag until he reached the hill, where he threw the cyclic left and
began to make his way up the hillside-Oh shit!

Delaney stared in surprise at the Iraqis hiding off the side of a rock
up the hillside in two jeeps. The machine guns mounted on the rear of
the jeeps were pointed in his direction.

Delaney reacted as swiftly as he could. Since he was running on a single
engine, his upward momentum had not been that great, and he managed to
get his craft back down the same side of the hill as the firing began.
The rounds missed ... except for a few that somehow managed to reach the
port turbine intake, exploding the moment they hit the high-speed
blades. In an instant, the sighting system went emergency red with a
flashing message to release collective and start an autorotation.

Delaney checked his altitude: one hundred feet. He lowered collective
and began to glide toward the foot of the hill at the ' end of the
clearing north of the village. He frowned when he spotted a
four-wheeldrive vehicle approaching at full speed. The Warthogs were
still busy engaging another group of Iraqi soldiers closer to the
village.

"Sandy! Get over here!" he shouted into his microphone as the Apache hit
the ground less than fifty feet from the rocky hill. The vehicle came to
a screeching halt just ten feet from him, under the decelerating rotor.

Delaney was hurting. His right shoulder stung and continued bleeding. He
began to feel cold, weak, dizzy. His vision began to cloud, but he
fought it, blinking rapidly and bringing the three soldiers in the jeep
back into focus.

The soldiers jumped out of the vehicle carrying automatic weapons. They
leveled them at him and signaled him to get out. Delaney pretended to be
seriously injured and kept his head down. His right hand slowly moved to
the side of his flight suit and extracted a Colt .45 automatic, which he
kept hidden out of view from the Iraqis.

Out of the corner of his eye, Delaney spotted the Warthogs circling the
area, but he knew they couldn't do much for him with the soldiers
standing next to the Apache.

The Iraqis looked at one another, and then two of them climbed up the
side steps. Delaney waited a few more seconds. The men reached the last
step and were banging on the sides of the bullet-proof canopy. Delaney
closed his eyes. His heartbeat rocketed with every blow. For a moment it
seemed as if he were back in Willoma. The night surrounded him.
White-robed men hammered at the windows of his father's truck as his
girlfriend screamed in fear. Delaney felt the gun in his hands. Saw the
Klansmen shouting outside. They were going to hang themselves a couple
of niggers. Bastards! You're all a bunch of fucking bastards!

Delaney opened his eyes and noticed the third man walking to the jeep
and pulling out an RPG shoulder-launched antitank unit from the back of
the vehicle.

Delaney raised his head and stared back at them with uncompromising
defiance. This is one nigger you ain't gonna get your hands on,
motherfuckers! In one swift move, he reached the canopy jettison handle
on the top right hand side of the instrument panel, pulled it and turned
it ninety degrees clockwise.

The explosive bolts of the canopy blew both windows and doors outward,
taking the two Iraqis with them. The soldiers landed several feet from
the craft and remained still. The third man was caught by surprise. He
hesitated for a few seconds before leveling the RPG at Delaney, but that
was all the time the native of Mississippi needed. Orlando Delaney
pressed his finger against the trigger and began to fire just as he had
done a lifetime ago in another land and for another reason. Round after
round left the hot muzzle of the Colt. Delaney felt his strength leaving
him. He was losing blood at a staggering rate, but he could not stop
firing. He would not be captured alive. Iraqis or Klansmen: in his tired
and cloudy mind, they were one and the same. He refused to be hanged by
the Klan. Refused to submit himself to the way white justice had been
secretly dispensed in Willoma for generations.

Empty shell casings shot out the side of the stainless steel weapon as
his arm grew weaker, too weak to hold the automatic. His vision became
foggy, but not before Orlando Delaney saw the last Iraqi arch back and
land next to his fallen friends.

Amanda Green saw the downed Apache and swung the cyclic in its
direction.

"Sandy, Six Five. Cover me!" she yelled as she maneuvered the Pave Hawk
twenty feet over the sand.

"We got you covered, Six Five, " came the reply, but Amanda was barely
listening. The swirling debris lifted by the massive rotor entered the
cockpit through the large opening blasted by the Mig. Brown dust
obscured her vision as Amanda maneuvered her craft to within fifty feet
of the Apache and touched down. She maintained rotor RPM to allow for a
quick take-off.

The two Special Ops soldiers raced toward the Apache, climbed up the
side and dragged the unconscious crew out of the helo. They came under
fire again. Amanda frantically searched for the source and found it
halfway up the hill. The Iraqis were firing down at them. Bullets
ricocheted off the side of the helicopter.

"Jesus, Sandy! Get these idiots off of me! Nine o'clock, high!"

"Rog.

As the Special Ops team approached the Pave Hawk and the side gunner
sprayed the hill with bullets, both A-10s came around and fired their
cannons at the hill. To Amanda's horror, she saw that one of the Special
Ops men was down, and the other was limping as he continued dragging an
Apache crewman.

The gunnerjumped out and quickly dragged the other two in. Thirty
seconds later everyone was aboard. She raised collective, added
throttle, and inched the cyclic forward. The Pave Hawk headed back
toward Saudi Arabia.

Thirty minutes later, Amanda Green began to feel cold. Her right hand
shivered as she held on to the cyclic. She continued to lose blood from
her thigh wound in spite of the tourniquet she had applied. On top of
all that, the main rotor downdraft pounding on her through the broken
canopy made her moves sluggish, painful.

She kept her gaze fixed on the southern horizon as her craft cruised at
185 knots fifty feet above the desert sands toward the Saudi Border. The
A-10s had left to refuel.

She forced her mind to think positively. The border was only forty miles
away and closing. Forty miles, Amanda, she told herself. If she could
only reach the border, perhaps someone would come and meet them halfway
and take them the rest of the way. That meant she would have to hang on
for about fifteen more minutes.

Fifteen minutes! Jesus Christ, I don't think I can last that long. Her
leg continued to bleed. She spoke into the microphone.

"Eagle's Nest ... Eagle's Nest, this is Tango ... Six ... Five. I don't
think I'm ... gonna make it. I'm bleeding ... badly. I'm getting ...
awfully cold."

"Hang in there, Six Five. You're almost home.

"No," she responded to the monotone voice coming from the base. "I don't
think I can ... I don't  ..."

Robert Bourdeaux and Colonel Peter Halston stood behind the radio
operator listening to the conversation on the overhead speaker. Halston,
along with Kramer and Delgado, had walked inside the tent just ten
minutes before from their short flight.

"You better talk to her, Pete," Bourdeaux said. "She needs to hear a
familiar voice."

Halston looked at the crowd now gathered around them. He took the mike
away from the radio operator and brought it to his lips.

"Captain Green this is Colonel Halston. You hang in there and keep that
cyclic centered. You're almost-"

"Dammit, Pete!" Bourdeaux shouted, startling everyone around them.
"Fucking talk to her, man! She needs you!"

Halston closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Amanda, this is Pete.
Listen, you gotta hang on. You have to!"

"I can't hold on ... any longer. I don't ... even know if I can ... set
this thing down right ...  here." "No, Pete!" said Bourdeaux. "Don't let
her land there! She's flying right over the damned Iraqis heading
south!"

Halston tightened the grip on the mike. "Don't set it down, Amanda! Oh,
God, please don't set it down! You're flying right over the Iraqis. Just
hang on. You can do it!"

"I ... I can't, Pete ... I. "Dammit, Amanda. Don't you fucking leave me
here alone! You hear me? Don't you die on me! Push yourself, dammit!

Push! You have a father and mother that love you dearly. You have
brothers that care about you! You hold on. Concentrate!"

"Pete ... it's cold ... it's so cold ... "I know it is. I know, but you
can handle it. I know you can! What's your altitude?"

"Fifty feet  ... "Heading?"

"One ... seven ... zero.

Halston looked to his right at the radio operator, who gave him a thumbs
up.

"You're right on target. Right on target. You're headed straight for a
temporary base of Army tanks just south of the border. We have two helos
on the way from another base to meet you and bring you here. The flight
surgeon and his staff are aboard the choppers."

"Oh, God, it hurts ...  I'm shivering ... Halston felt his heart
sinking. Tears welled up in his eyes as he struggled to remain in
control, searching for the right words to say.

"You're only ten miles away from the Army base, Amanda. You're almost
home. Almost home. Start your descent. You should get a visual on the
camp in under a minute. You can make it. I know you can. Please, hang
on!"

"I'm sorry ... I can't ... longer ... Halston lowered the mike and
pressed his lips into a tight frown as his heartbeat pounded inside him.
He glanced at everyone in the room. All eyes were on him. He made up his
mind and brought the mike up to his lips again. Tears now rolled down
his face. "I love you, dammit! Can you hear me, Amanda Green? I said I
love you and I need you! I lost someone I loved dearly once, please
don't do this to me again!

Please ... please come back to me."

Captain Amanda Green breathed deeply, shuddering with pain, as her ears
listened to the words of the man she loved. She didn't want to die. I'm
too young, dammit. I can't die yet! He loves me!

And so Amanda pushed. She looked deep inside and pulled out the
unyielding determination to remain alive. She blinked rapidly as her
vision began to fog. She couldn't afford that. She needed her eyesight
to spot the -There! I see it!

A final burst of adrenaline gave her the energy to focus on her landing.
Amanda cut back throttle and lowered collective while inching the cyclic
forward. The Pave Hawk began to descend. She focused on the base. Tears
had filled her eyes and she could no longer read the instruments. She
flew on instinct. She felt the Pave Hawk through the cyclic and
collective, through the rudder pedals. It became a part of her. Her
craft was wounded like her, struggling to return home, fighting to stay
together. The Pave Hawk talked to her, told her when to add more power,
when to adjust collective or cyclic, when to add just a bit more rudder.
Amanda felt something she'd never experienced before. The Pave Hawk was
really telling her what to do. Telling her how to take it home. Like
herself, it didn't want to perish so close to home after fighting so
hard.

And so they went together, machine and pilot. Pilot and machine.

The two became one as they flew over the perimeter fence and reached the
tarmac, hovering ten feet above the ground before slowly, oh, so slowly,
touching down.

Too weak to move, Captain Amanda Green's last impression was a pair of
hands pulling her out of the cockpit before all faded away.

WARNINGS THE WHITE House.

Day Six. 0900 Local Time.

The defense secretary showed President Clinton the latest advancement of
Iraqi troops. It seems as if the Republican Guard detachment had slowed
down as it approached the border with Kuwait and Saudi Arabia, finally
coming to a halt just fifteen miles from the border. The initial force
of American troops in the region had been reinforced with 7,500 Marines,
plus additional aircraft, tanks, and the USS Kennedy Carrier Group in
the Med. But so far there was no sight of Saddam's nukes.

Could this whole thing be just one gigantic bluff to make my
administration look olish in the eyes of the world? No. Clinton didn't
fo buy that. Saddam wouldn't risk another heavy pounding like Desert
Storm if he didn't have the nuclear power to back up his moves. Or would
he? The Iraqi leader certainly had a history of making the oddest of
moves for no obvious strategic gain.

What's he waiting for?

One possible explanation, which Clinton liked most, was that the Iraqi
leader didn't have the nukes assembled yet. Another explanation, which
he feared, was that Saddam had a few nukes built and was simply building
more, positioning Iraq in the world map of nuclear powers.

The CIA had some preliminary data from the NPIC archives that indicated
that Allahbad had consumed far more construction materials than the
factory near Baghdad, and that it had also taken much longer to build.
Those findings tended to support the CIA's theory of an underground
facility. Draper, however, still believed otherwise. His secretary of
state claimed it was too soon to tell. Defense wanted a second attack
immediately. A recent briefing by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of
Staff gave Clinton a good idea of the latest plan of attack should a
ground war break out.

But the president didn't want to go to war, simply because there was no
need for war. He just wanted to eliminate Saddam's nukes and make the
Iraqi dictator crawl back into his little hole in Baghdad.

Clinton decided to wait it out a bit longer, at least until the CIA
finished searching through their archives.

On the positive side, the president had just gotten word that the pilot
of the downed F-14 over Iraq had been rescued and flown to a base in
northern Saudi Arabia, where he still remained unconscious. The
president prayed for his quick recovery and for that of the wounded crew
who rescued him.

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER. Day Six. 1700
Local Time.

The light became progressively brighter, then went away. The image of a
doctor came into focus.

"He's going to be fine, sir. Just lost a lot of blood. He'll feel much
better after a couple of transfusions."

"Thank you, Doctor," another voice responded. "Is he conscious enough to
understand what we're saying?"

"I doubt it, but you're welcome to try," the doctor responded as he
walked away. His face was replaced by the face of a stranger.

"Lieutenant Dalton ... Lieutenant Dalton, if you can hear me simply
blink your eyes. One for yes; two for no. Got it?"

Kevin blinked once.

"Good. My name is Colonel Peter Halston, U.S. Air Force. Do you remember
what happened to you out there?"

Kevin blinked once.

"A woman used your radio to give us your position. Where is she now?"

Kevin didn't respond. He simply stared into space. Khalela ... why?
inexorably, his mind drifted back to the moment he realized she was not
in the helicopter. Her touch, her eyes, her smell-it was all gone in a
second. Kevin felt alone, cold. He turned his head away and closed his
eyes.

Halston slowly shook his head, realizing that Kevin had obviously been
under a lot of stress. The colonel decided to wait until the doctors got
more blood into him and he'd had a chance to sleep for a few extra
hours. Halston began to turn around when he noticed a single tear
flowing down Kevin's right cheek. He remembered the Pave Hawk's gunner
relating the incident. The gunner had had a hard time controlling Kevin
when he made it to the chopper. He'd said that the lieutenant kept
screaming about a woman named Khalela. The gunner also indicated that
the woman had been running toward the chopper with Kevin, but had
stopped halfway and started running the other way.

That's odd, Halston thought. Why would she do something like that?

Especially with the place crawling with Iraqi troops. Halston wondered
if that was the same person he had talked to on the radio.

Halston was curious about how the Iraqis had managed to deploy the
tanks, the Hind, and the Mig-29 to the area so quickly. He knew that the
Iraqis constantly monitored the Guard channel and would have found the
rescue spot, but how did they do it so fast? After all, the rescue team
was already airborne and well on its way by the time Delgado had made
contact with Dalton. Maybe the woman was responsible. Halston frowned.
It certainly would explain why she didn't get in the chopper. But on the
other hand, Dalton could have easily warned us when Delgado asked about
the tattoo on his arm, but Dalton came right out and specifically told
us to relax, that it wasn't a trap. Unless ... that womanfooled him,
too. Halston stared at the Navy pilot and tried to put himself in his
shoes: injured, abandoned, and alone in hostile ground. Not speaking the
language and sticking out like a sore thumb. A woman somehow manages to
cross his path, probably pretending to be a Kurd or with some
antigovernment group, and offers her help. Suddenly, he has a
translator, a friend, someone that could be his ticket out of there.
Halston smiled. The story fit the facts, but he decided to wait until
the lieutenant came around before drawing any conclusions.

He walked over to the bed adjacent to Dalton's. Amanda was in a similar
situation. She had lost a lot of blood and remained unconscious. It had
been a miracle that she had managed to bring the craft back in one
piece, especially wounded and with a blown canopy. She's the best.
Delaney, Rizzo, and one of the Special Ops soldiers were still in
surgery. Poole never made it; he was dead on arrival. Rizzo, on the
other hand, 'had been very fortunate that the helmet had deflected the
round, otherwise he would have been dead on impact.

Haiston kneeled down next to her and took her hand. "Thank you, Amanda.
Thank you for coming back to me," he whispered.

"Pete  ..." Her eyes opened.

Halston eyes filled. "Yes, baby. It's me. I'm here with you."

She smiled. "Thank you."

"No, baby. Thank you for coming back to me. God, for a moment I
thought-"

She put a hand on his lips. "I know. I love you, too."

He remained with her for ten more minutes before she slowly drifted back
to sleep.

Slowly, Halston got up and glanced at the orderly. "Call me the moment
she comes back around."

"Yes, sir."

Halston left the hospital tent and headed for Draper's tent. The late
afternoon sun blinded him. Halston took out his sunglasses and put them
on. Kramer and Delgado stood next to a parked Army jeep. He approached
them.

"How are they, sir?" asked Delgado.

"They'll be all right. We're going to have to wait a few more hours
before he's fully conscious. The doctor said he's lost a lot of blood.
Amanda's in better shape. I just talked to her for a couple of minutes."

"Can we go in and see them, sir?" Delgado asked in a half-pleading tone.

Halston smiled. "Sure, I guess you guys can go in." He walked past them.

"Well? What does he have to say in his defense?" Draper asked the moment
Haiston walked inside the tent.

"He won't be saying much until he comes back around, sir."

"Do you have a guard next to his bed?"

"No, sir. Why should I?"

Draper shrugged. "Fine. It's not my place to argue with you on this. The
Navy pilot is your responsibility, not mine."

"With all due respect, sir, in case you haven't been keeping up with
current events, Lieutenant Dalton was the one who turned himself in to
us. He is the one that ran to the chopper and the one that jumped in the
chopper. Doesn't that mean anything? Doesn't that give him the right to
be treated like the pilot he is until such a time as a military court
finds him guilty, if he is found guilty at all?"

Draper didn't flinch. "The only reason I came to this godforsaken base
was to make sure Operation Desert Star went smoothly. What you do about
other issues is your business."

Halston tightened his fists. Control. Control Don't let him get to you,
Pete. He's almost out of here. "You asked for an update on his situation
and I just gave it to you. Is there anything else that-"

"That will be all, Colonel."

Halston managed to control his anger and did not storm out of the place.
He slowly turned around and walked away.

"Madre de Dios, Crackers. You look like shit! What in the world happened
to you out there?"

"Chico ... hi  ..."

Delgado knelt next to the bed and grabbed Kevin's hand.

"You're gonna be fine. See this?" He pointed at the plastic tube all
connected to an IV. "You're gettin' lots of blood, man. In a few hours
You'll be jumpin' up and down." Delgado saw the hint of a smile on
Kevin's bruised face.

"Doubt it ... but thanks."

"Is there anythin' you need, hermano? Anythin' at all?"

"Thirsty ..

Delgado bolted up to his feet and glanced at the orderly. "You heard the
man. How about some water!"

The orderly walked to the nurse's station, where he grabbed a paper cup
and poured water from a plastic pitcher.

"Here you go, sir."

Delgado knelt down and brought the cup to Kevin's lips. "Go easy, man.
Just a few sips for now."

Kevin coughed after the first swallow. Delgado looked down to put the
cup on the floor. By the time he looked back up, Kevin's eyes were
closed.

"The doctor said he's going to be like that for at least another hour,
Chico," Longhorn Kramer said from the foot of the bed.

Kramer walked over to Amanda's bed. Delgado followed him.

"Hey, I see you're doing better," Longhorn said. "Gotta little color in
your cheeks. How're you doin' down there, hon?"

Amanda's lips curved upward. "Are you ... always so damned  ...
cheerful?"

"Honey, where I come from you gotta have a cheerful personality or
you'll go nuts."

"That was some serious flyin' you did over there, Amanda," Delgado said.
"The gunner from the Pave Hawk told us all about it."

Amanda smiled.

"He also told us about the Mig-29. Sounds like somethin' you would see
in a movie. I'm tellin' you, you're going' up for some serious medals.

"How's ... Poole doing?"

Delgado looked to Kramer, who took Amanda's hand in his gently before
speaking. "I'm sorry, darling'  ..."

A silent tear flowed down her cheek.

An hour later, Halston and Bourdeaux headed for the hospital tent after
receiving messages that Kevin and Amanda were fully awake. The evening
air was warm and dry as they walked across the still-hot tarmac.
Bourdeaux broke out in a light sweat.

The second set of satellite images from the NPIC archives that had
arrived an hour ago contained more of the same: an unusually high number
of trucks hauling all kinds of materials into the warehouse over the
course of several years. Bourdeaux found it amazing that this facility
was never flagged before, but then again, he reflected, during the
height of the construction in the mid-eighties, the United States was on
Iraq's side in the fight against Iran. At the time, CIA and military
analysts could care less about the construction of a milk factory in
south-central Iraq. During those years, the Reagan administration had
the American intelligence community focused on the Soviet Union, Iran,
Libya, Cuba, the war against cocaine traffic, the Contra-Sandinista war,
the civil war of El Salvador, and Noriega's Panama.

Nope. Nobody gave a shit about Iraq back then,thought Bourdeaux,
deciding to write a final recommendation to the director of the CIA
based on the second set of archived images he had just reviewed.

Followed by Halston, Bourdeaux pushed the canvas flap open and walked
between the two rows of beds. He spotted Delgado and Kramer. As
Bourdeaux had expected, Halston went to see Amanda first. After a few
minutes, the colonel turned toward the U.S. Navy lieutenant. "Good
evening, Lieutenant," Halston said. "Hello, sir." :,You do remember me,
right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Where shall we start?"

"The beginning sounds like a good place to me, sir," responded Kevin.

"Very well, then," Halston said, pulling up a chair. Bourdeaux stood
behind the colonel. "We're listening."

Kevin cleared his throat and began. His voice was slow and steady, his
words carefully chosen. He described the highlights only, figuring that
they would ask questions afterward about specifics.

"Ha! I told you, Bob!" Halston shouted the moment Kevin mentioned the
underground facility at Allahbad. "Those bastards are assembling their
nuclear missiles down there. Well, I'll be damned!"

The CIA officer slowly shook his head in disbelief. The pilot's
testimony was the final piece of data he needed to really point the
finger at Allahbad. Bourdeaux turned to Kevin. "That's one hell of a
story, Lieutenant, especially your friendship with the Kurds and this
woman ... what's her name again?"

"Khalela Yishaid."

"How do you know she's not the enemy?" Haiston asked.

Kevin smiled. "Because, sir. she's Mossad."

"What?" snapped Bourdeau'x.

"She's Israeli intelligence. When I met her she was training the band of
Kurds on some Javelins they had just-"

"You said Javelins?" Bourdeaux interrupted.

"Ah, yes. They said they got them from someone they called 'the American
Bai.' The American merchant, as Khalela translated it for me later."

Bourdeaux couldn't believe this. "Damn! One of their names wasn't
Ishmael by any chance, was it?"

"Yes, it was. How do you-"

"Because I was the one that gave those Javelins to them. I'm the Bai."

"You what?"

"You heard me. I'm Robert Bourdeaux. CIA."

"Boy, that's interesting."

"What's that?" asked Bourdeaux.

"Well, sir. The only reason I'm here today is because Ishmael and his
Kurdish guerrillas wanted to trade me for additional weapons. They kept
mentioning that the Bai would be very generous when they brought me to
him."

"Going back to the woman, Lieutenant," Halston said. "How do you know
she was Mossad? She could have easily been lying."

Kevin frowned and told them that the thought did cross his mind at
first, but then he had put two and two together and realized that she
could not have been lying. First, she was well known by the Kurds, who
had contacts in a lot of places inside Iraq. Second, she had destroyed
two Iraqi helicopters and had rescued him. Would the Iraqis let one of
their own people destroy two craft and crew just to impress an American
pilot? Kevin couldn't buy that. And third, Kevin saw the way she had
been tortured at the chemical complex when he rescued her. Khalela was
for real. As for the Hinds, the Iraqis had simply reacted very fast to
the transmission they probably picked up on Guard.

"Then how do you explain the fact she didn't get on the chopper?"

Kevin lowered his gaze. "She's Mossad, sir. She still had a mission,"
was all he could say.

"All right," Halston said. "We'll go with that for now."

"Ah, Lieutenant?" asked Bourdeaux.

"Yes?"

"Did all the Kurds perish in the ambush outside Allahbad?"

"All died during the ambush except for two, sir. Ishmael was tortured to
death, according to Khalela. Abdul, Ishmael's right hand, was killed by
an Iraqi officer while helping Khalela and me escape from the complex
during the bombing."

"Yes, Mr. Bourdeaux. They were the best."

Bourdeaux thanked the Navy pilot and left the group. He had a report to
write. VALUES SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUOI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDER.

Day Six. 2120 Local Time.

Robert Bourdeaux was very surprised. General Kenneth Draper had not
reacted exactly as he had expected. Draper had listened to him without
interruption as the CIA analyst sat across the table from Draper in the
general's tent. Bourdeaux even saw what appeared to be true concern in
the general's eyes.

"So the pilot also claims there is an underground lab?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you said that you have already sent your recommendation to the
director of the CIA based on the pilot's testimony and the satellite
images?"

"That's right, sir."

Draper regarded Bourdeaux for a few seconds. "Well, let me talk to the
president. Perhaps we can all come to some kind of consensus on this
issue."

Bourdeaux smelled trouble. The Silver Rat simply wasn't this nice.

"Ah, yes, General. That will be fine."

Bourdeaux turned around and left the tent. The air was now cool and
invigorating. He breathed deeply several times, trying to figure out
Draper's game. Rubbing his right temple, Bourdeaux spotted Halston,
Kramer, and Delgado standing next to Kevin Dalton. He approached them.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, Lieutenant Dalton?"

"I feel great. Maybe it's because of all the blood they pumped into me."

"Well, I suggest you don't push it."

"Oh, I won't. I just got up and came outside to get a breath of fresh
air."

"So," Halston asked, "how did it go in there?"

Bourdeaux frowned and shifted his gaze to the row of F- 1 5 Eagles
parked on the far side of the base. "He said he would discuss it with
the president."

"That's it?" asked Halston.

"Yes, but I'm not really certain what to-Oh, there he goes, probably
heading to make his call," Bourdeaux said as he spotted Draper and his
pilot walking toward the Gulfstream IV.

"Hmm," said Halston. "Say, guys, I'll be right back."

Bourdeaux watched Draper and the pilot go inside the Grumman executive
transport jet and close the door behind them. "Where are you going,
Pete?"

"To check something out." With that Halston headed for the
communications tent.

Five minutes later, Bourdeaux watched Draper and the pilot leave the
Gulfstream. Draper walked back to his tent. Another minute went by, and
Halston emerged from the communications tent. He held a piece of paper
in his hand.

"Bob, I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you," said Halston.

Bourdeaux looked at his old Army buddy's hardened face. "C'mon, Pete.
Out with it."

"Draper just made a secure call to the White House. I intercepted and
unscrambled it."

"You did what?"

Halston shrugged and looked at his notes. "It's all for a good cause.
Draper told President Clinton that Desert Star was a disaster. He blamed
the CIA, and in particular you, Bob, for not gathering enough
intelligence on the site prior to the bombing raid. Did you know that
the Iraqis are claiming a civilian death toll of over two hundred at
Allahbad? Two hundred innocent men, women, and children?"

Bourdeaux blinked twice. "Oh, shit, I didn't know about-"

"It's supposed to be all over the networks," responded Halston. "That's
bullshit," said Kramer. "You know that's all a bunch of Iraqi propaganda
horse shit."

"I know that," said Halston, "but you know how the media is about these
things."

"Jesus Christ," said Bourdeaux, closing his eyes and massaging his
temples.

"There's more, Bob."

Bourdeaux opened his right eye. "More?"

"Yep. Draper stated that Desert Star had given the Clinton
administration a large black eye. Draper reminded the president that he
had been against the operation from the start, and that he should have
never listened to you in the first place. He warned the president
against acting on the information provided by the hot-headed Navy pilot,
and he also said that this kind of impulsive behavior is what got us in
this mess in the first place. I imagine the White House is now trying to
figure out how to explain this one to the world. This is some mess,
Bob."

Halston exhaled. "Shit. Well, here it comes. I'm really sorry, man, but
Draper has recommended that you be removed from your current assignment
and shipped back to Langley. Sounds like he's trying to get you canned."

Bourdeaux stood in utter disbelief. Draper was making the ultimate move
against him and he felt impotent to stop it. He knew the president would
pay more attention to Draper's opinion than his own, particularly after
the Iraqis used the dead civilians to make themselves look like the
victims of a ruthless Allied bombing. The Silver Rat had been around for
some time and knew a lot of people in Congress and in the military.
Bourdeaux didn't stand a chance against him.

"Damn!" Longhorn Kramer said. "Like they say where I come from, the
two-faced bastard borrowed your brandin' iron and is gonna use it to
brand your ass when you ain't lookin'."

Bourdeaux nodded. "Yep. You got the right picture, Colonel."

"It's not fair, Bob!" protested Halston. "I think I should go in there
and-"

Bourdeaux raised his right hand. He explained to Halston and the others
that there was nothing they could do for him, but there was a lot they
could do against themselves if they went to Draper and try to defend
Bourdeaux's position. Draper's mind was set and he had already made his
move. There was nothing that could change it now. Bourdeaux walked away.

"That bastard Draper," Halston murmured to the others. "Bob Bourdeaux's
one hell of a man, and that asshole's about to destroy him. There must
be something we can do."

"Hey, what about the fucking missiles?" Kevin asked. "When all the smoke
clears after Draper's back home and Bourdeaux back at Langley, the fact
will still remain that the Iraqis have managed to build and deploy
nuclear missiles. You know if those bastards are crazy enough to have
launched Scud after Scud against Tel Aviv and Riyadh during Desert
Storm, they won't hesitate to launch a few nuclear missiles if they have
them ready. We gotta do something fast."

"But what? You heard Draper," Delgado said. "Desert Star's dead."

"The hell with him. At this point it doesn't matter what I do anyhow.
The moment I'm discharged from the hospital, I'm going to be facing that
long green table, and you know what that usually means."

"Yep. You can kiss off your flying career and forget about your future
in the Navy."

Kevin took two steps away from the group, turned around and faced his
audience of three. "Gentlemen, if I'm gonna be forced to leave the armed
forces, I'm going to do it in style, and truly serve Uncle Sam in the
process."

"What do you have in mind?" Kramer asked.

Kevin smiled.

"Oh, shit," Delgado said.

BAGHDAD.

Day Six. 2230 Local Time.

The Syrian woman slowly undressed and smiled, showing two perfectly
straight rows of glistening white teeth. With her light green eyes
gazing into his, Saddam Hussein, sitting on the bed of one of his luxury
bunkers, also smiled, not in response to the beautiful woman in front of
him, but because a fourth missile had been deployed at Allahbad. He now
controlled the future of Tel Aviv, Riyadh, Kuwait City, and Tehran. All
he had to do was pick up the phone next to the bed, and in ten minutes
those four cities would cease to exist.

Soon, he decided. Very soon. Another reason for his smile was the
attention the world had given to the sixty-second film of the civilians
killed at Allahbad. Once again, the predictable Americans and their news
media were helping his cause.

The Syrian whore dropped her last garment on the carpeted floor and
approached him, her hands reaching for the buttons of his brown uniform.
Saddam placed his hands on her tanned hips and stared at her flat
stomach.

The phone rang. Glaring at the intrusion, Saddam picked it up. "Yes?"


Great One, the field general with the southern deployment is requesting
further instructions."

Saddam nodded. The deployed forces had stopped short of the border and,
with all the Allied activity on the other side, were getting restless.
In spite of Saddam's control of the media inside Iraq, horror stories of
the 1991 Gulf War continued to circulate among the ranks of his army.
This time around, things will be much different.

"Tell them I will give them new instructions in the morning."

As scenarios unraveled in his mind, Saddam hung up the phone while the
Syrian whore fiddled with the buttons of his uniform. Soon. Very soon.

THE WHITE HOUSE.

Day Six. 1300 Local Time.

President Clinton had a serious problem in his hands. On one side, CNN
played the massacre at Allahbad over and over again, stirring concern
around the country-and the world. Already the White House telephone
lines were overloaded with callers from across the country complaining
about the killings of innocent civilians. On the other side, he had the
CIA and the downed F- 1 4 pilot telling him that Allahbadthe same
complex where Iraqi officials claimed hundreds of women and children had
perished-had an underground laboratory that was assembling nukes. He had
listened to his advisors over and over again. All had given him their
honest opinions based on their positions and their experience. All
except for Undersecretary Kenneth Draper, who appeared to care more
about pointing fingers than about solving this problem. In this case,
Draper had stated in no uncertain terms that Bourdeaux was responsible
for this disaster.

President Clinton grimaced at the thought of Draper making life very
difficult for CIA Officer Bourdeaux, who simply appeared to be doing his
job. He would deal with Draper later. Right now it was time for an
executive decision.

While leaning against the edge of his desk, the president silently
probed his defense secretary, who wore a dark blue suit and sat on one
of the sofas.

"Mr. President?"

"I want you to get in contact with General Marshall and coordinate
another strike on the facility. Only those who need to know about this
second strike should be aware of it. Nobody else. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," responded the defense secretary. "But it's going to take
some time to set it up."

"How much time?"

"Twelve to twenty-four hours, sir. It took that long to prepare for the
first strike. If all goes well, we should be able to launch the attack
by sunset tomorrow night. We'll probably launch it directly from the FI
17A base at Khamis Mushait. That way we'll be able to keep it between us
in this room, General Marshall, and General Towers, the commander of the
F-1 17 base."

Clinton nodded. "Very well. Get it done."

AMAN BAKISH AIR BASE NEAR AN NAJAF, SOUTHERN IRAQ. Day Six. 2120 Local
Time.

General Abunnasr Manesh watched the technicians remove the faulty
electronic modules from his Mig-29 and replace them with brand new spare
parts. The missile control system was now operational again, giving his
Mig full weapons capability once more. The technicians faced him and
gave him a thumbs-up.

"This jet is one hundred percent ready for combat, sir."

"Good. Very good." He walked away.

SALMAN ASAD AIR BASE, SAUDI ARABIA. NEAR IRAQI BORDEL Day Seven. 0420
Local Time.

With sunrise less than two hours away, Colonel Longhorn Kramer and
Lieutenant Delgado walked away from their jets, having verified that
both the F-14 and the F-117A were fully fueled and armed.

They headed for the medical tent.

Lieutenant Kevin Dalton had not been able to sleep. The rush of
adrenaline through his veins kept him fully awake. He glanced to his
right and saw Amanda sleeping peacefully. He nodded his head slightly.
In his mind, she deserved to get all the rest in the world after the way
she had managed to bring the Pave Hawk and crew back home in one piece
in spite of her wounds. On the bed next to Amanda's was Captain Orlando
Delaney, also sleeping. The Apache pilot had fended off the Mig and made
the mission a success. Kevin only regretted that the green-striped Mig
had managed to escape. Across the narrow hall were Delaney's copilot and
one of the Special Ops men, both of whom were knocked out with
painkillers.

He shifted his gaze to the empty nurse's station. The nurse on duty had
gone to the supply room to get more painkillers after Kevin had
complained about his leg wound. He sighed. He knew it was just a matter
of time before he had to defend his actions. Facing the long green
court-martial table didn't bother him as much as it had just a few days
ago, but he could imagine how the senior aviators sitting at that table
would slowly take him apart. He knew the questions that would be thrown
at him. What in the world were you thinking, Lieutenant? How could we
ever trust you again with a multimillion dollar jet? Your ego killed a
fine o officer. What do you have to say for yourselp He frowned. There
were more pressing issues going through his head at the time. Khalela,
for one thing. He had temporarily managed to suppress some of his
feelings for her and replace them with the logical understanding that
she didn't belong in his world. She was Mossad, a highly trained
operative; he a pilot in name only about to face the consequences of ...
Dammit, I still feel that I was doing the right thing at the time! he
thought, his face contorted with anger. Although he had only known
Commander Dewayne Lancaster for just under two years, he had had a lot
of respect for him. Lancaster had helped him a lot, especially during
his first months at NAS Miramar. His encouraging words and impeccable
example as a true naval aviator had reinforced Kevin's desire to become
the best. Kevin thought of the green-striped Mig. He was fixated on it.
He didn't care what it took and would trade anything-short of a chance
of seeing Khalela again-to meet that Mig again in a Tomcat. In his mind,
the Mig's action had violated all the established codes of aerial
combat.

He pressed the tips of his fingers against his temples, massaging them.
He knew that any way he looked at it, the fact still remained that he
had disobeyed a direct order from Mcdeere, and because of that he had
been shot down and his RIO killed. He knew that would be the way the
court would also see it.

Sighing, Kevin looked to his left at Commander John Mcdeere, sleeping
peacefully after taking a strong painkiller for a severe stomach virus.
Kevin smiled. Delgado was really something else. Kevin owed Delgado one
for knocking Mcdeere out of commission before Kevin arrived at the base.
The last thing Kevin needed right now was an earful from his commanding
officer.

A noise to his right made him lift his head from the pillow.

"Shh, easy, Crackers, or you gonna get us all in trouble."

Kevin got up. "All right, Chico," he whispered. "We only got a few
minutes before the nurse comes back and sees an empty bed."

"Don't worry about that. In a few minutes it won't really matter. Let's
go."

Kevin followed Delgado out the back entrance. Outside, they joined
Kramer, who had the stolen gear of another Tomcat pilot, one roughly the
same size as Kevin. The trio quickly moved toward their jets.

Robert Bourdeaux heard the jet engines and recognized the distinctive
sound of the Tomcat. There weren't supposed to be any F- 1 4 missions at
this time. Puzzled, he got up, put on his shoes and walked outside. He
spotted an Air Force sergeant staring at the F- 1 4 afterburners
accelerating down the runway.

"What's going on, Sergeant?"

"Don't know, sir. Sure is pretty, though. Always loved those Tomcats."

"Shit.11 Bourdeaux headed for the communications tent. A minute later,
he found Halston sitting behind the radio gear.

"Pete, we gotta talk."

"What's up?"

"I don't know what's up. That's why we gotta talk."

Halston followed Bourdeaux outside.

"A Tomcat just took off. Do you know why?"

"I'm afraid so, Bob. It's Dalton and Delgado. Kramer left a couple of
minutes ago in his Black Jet."

"What? Dalton's in the hospital! What in the hell's going on? And what
do Delgado and Kramer think they're doing?"

"Well, you could talk to them, though I doubt they'd answer."

Halston grinned.

Bourdeaux regarded him for a moment. "Pete, do you know what's going
on?"

"They're going to Allahbad."

"Are they out of their minds? Pete, are you involved in this?"

"Ah ... yep. I guess you can say that."

Bourdeaux turned as he heard footsteps. It was General Draper. He wore a
robe and slippers.

"Bob, I hear an F- 1 4 just took off. What's the story?"

"Lieutenant Dalton just left in an F- 1 4."

"He what?"

"You heard me, sir. He just took off."

"Where does he think he's going?"

"Allahbad."

Bourdeaux watched Draper's face redden and then quiver as he tightened
his fists and stormed inside the communications tent.

"That son of a bitch!" He turned to Halston. "I should have put him in
the brig! What does he think he's doing? Hasn't he done enough damage
already? Dammit! This is exactly the kind of shit I was trying to
prevent from happening! Who's in the backseat?"

"Lieutenant Delgado, but it's too late for that now," responded
Bourdeaux.

"Dammit! They're about to ruin everything!"

"Are they, sir?"

Draper locked eyes with Bourdeaux. "What did you say?"

"I said, is he really going to ruin everything?"

"W hat's that supposed to mean?"

"Have you thought of the fact that maybe he is right? That perhaps there
are nuclear weapons at Allahbad?"

"I've had just about enough of your insolence, Bob! Haiston, I want you
to get on that radio and call them back now!"

Halston looked at Draper and smiled. "Sorry, sir. But I'm afraid I'm In
on this as well."

1 4 What? Do you realize the implications of your actions, Colonel?"

"Yes, sir. I do."

"In that case, you're relieved for insubordination!" Draper turned to
Bourdeaux. "Bob, I want you to talk to Lieutenant Dalton and order him
back right now!"

Bourdeaux picked up the microphone and brought it to his mouth. He
stopped.

"Bob! This is your last warning. You either call or I'm going to-" aere,
sir," Bourdeaux said, handing the mike over to Draper. "You want him to
turn around, you talk to him. I'm CIA, not Air Force. I'm not allowed to
talk on that radio, but even if I could, I wouldn't because I'm getting
canned anyway. Right, General?"

Draper blinked twice and gave Bourdeaux a half-puzzled look. He then
looked at Halston, who raised his eyebrows. "I'm in charge of
communications, sir," the Californian responded.

Draper snatched the mike from Bourdeaux's hands. "You, you both of you
just made the worst decision of your careers!"

Kevin Dalton pulled back throttles to forty percent and kept the craft
below one hundred feet above ground. He smiled broadly behind the oxygen
mask. It felt good to be flying again, even if it would be his last hop.

Wolfpack Two One Six, this is General Draper, " Kevin heard over a
secure channel.

"Shit, Crackers. That's the asshole from CENTAF," Delgado said over the
ICS.

"It was bound to happen sooner or later, Chico."

"What are you gonna do?" asked Delgado.

"Guess I'll talk to the guy." Kevin switched a knob on his radio.
"Wolfpack Two One Six."

"One Six, I'm ordering you to turn the craft around immediately or face
the consequences.

"Negative."

"Return to base or I'll vector F-]5s to shoot you down.

"Sorry, sir. A lot of people died to get the information that I passed
to you yesterday, and you've chosen to close your eyes to what I have
seen at Allahbad. I can't. Millions of lives are at stake!"

"It's of no use anyway, One Six. You're only carrying air-to-air
missiles. The won't do you any good "Lieutenant Dalton's stores won't,
but my cargo will, sir," interrupted Kramer.

"Who's that?" Draper asked.

"This is Longhorn. I got two Paveways and I know where to put them."

"Christ, Colonel! Do you realize the consequences of what you're doing?"

"Sure do, sir. Somebody's gotta do it."

"You bunch of lunatics' f I order all of you to RTB right now!"

"Say again. You I re broken."

"Don't hand me that bullshit!"

That was all Kevin cared to hear from the general. He deselected that
frequency and switched to the squadron frequency. "Everybody still up
for this?"

"Listen, pal The only reason that I'm a lieutenant colonel at
thirty-five's because I've always taken chances. Otherwise I wouldn't be
more than a captain.

"Besides, Crackers," added Delgado, "not much else to do around here."

Kevin smiled. "Thank you, guys. Now let's get down to business."

"ETA to target two zero mikes, " he heard Kramer say.

"Concur," responded Delgado.

Kevin glanced outside and saw the orange light coloring the horizon.
Sunrise was minutes away.

ALLAHBAD PROCESSING COMPLEX, SOUTH OF AN NAJAF, IRAQ. Day Seven. 0545
Local Time.

Dr. Sakkar approached Risha across the corridor between two redfuming
nitric acid tanks. Another missile would be deployed in an hour. Sakkar
smiled. It seemed that every time he assigned Risha to assist a missile
crew, their rocket got deployed next.

The WHITE HOUSE.

Day Six. 2147 Local Time.

The phone interrupted a late meeting in the Oval Office, where the
defense secretary and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
presented the plan for the raid on Allahbad to the president, the
secretary of state, and the director of Central Intelligence.

The president, sitting behind his desk, picked it up on the third ring.

"Yes?"

"Mr. President," one his aides said, "I have Undersecretary Kenneth
Draper on the line. He claims he needs to talk to you about a matter of
national security."

Jesus. What now?

"All right, put him through." The president pressed the speaker box
button on his phone.

"Mr. President?" the voice of Draper crackled inside the Oval Office.

"Yes. What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid we have a serious problem in our hands, sir. It involves the
Navy pilot Lieutenant Kevin Dalton. He just stole a Tomcat and is
heading for Allahbad. I just tried to convince him to turn around, but
he switched me off. An F- 1 17, piloted by the same officer who flew the
initial strike, also went along with Dalton, sir."

Clinton leaned back in his chair, interlocking his fingers in front of
his face while closing his eyes. He opened them a second later. Blank
stares from his staff bombarded the president. Clinton didn't flinch.
"How long ago did they leave?"

"Minutes ago, sir. We're still in time to stop them."

The president's eyebrows rose a trifle. "And how, Mr. Draper, do you
propose we stop them?"

The line went silent for a few seconds. "Ah ... I recommend vectoring
F-15 interceptors to shoot them down, sir. There is a squadron of them
flying an exercise a hundred miles east of here. You can't let them get
to the facility, sir."

"Mr. Draper, are you recommending that I order F-15s to shoot down our
own planes?"

"Mr. President, I-"

"I want you to report back here immediately, Mr. Draper. And I expect
your resignation on my desk within forty-eight hours."

The president hung up. The room went silent.

"Well," Clinton said, "looks like our plan is now a backup." The
president turned to the defense secretary. "Get a hold of General
Marshall. Explain to him what the Tomcat and the F- 1 17 pilots are
doing, and ask him to have rescue teams ready."

"Yes, sir."

With his staff still wearing startled looks, Clinton got up, walked to a
window behind his desk, and gazed out at a star-filled sky.

May God be with you, Lieutenant Kevin Dalton.

SOUTHERN IRAQ.

Day Seven. 0545 Local Time.

Under the light of a single gas lamp, Khalela Yishaid sat across the
rustic table inside the murky room and looked at the two senior Mossad
operatives. She felt nauseated and drained from lack of sleep. Since
their arrival in the small village five hours ago, the senior operatives
had gone through an extensive debriefing of her mission, all of which
had been recorded on the portable tape recorder now rewinding.

"I'm glad that you made it, Khalela. For a while we were worried," said
Colonel Hassin Abaraka, the older of the two, still dressed like a
villager.

She glanced at him and then stared blankly out the window.

"Yes, Hassin, I did make it. That young Iraqi officer who told you about
the plutonium shipment couldn't have been closer to the truth."

Hassin laughed. "That was your idea, Khalela. I just played the role,
remember?"

Khalela nodded. "Yes, I remember."

"What do you think is going to happen to the American?"

She lowered her gaze. "I'm not sure. He may never fly again."

"He's lucky if he gets just that. In our Air Force, the punishment would
have been a lot more harsh. We have no room for insubordinates."

Khalela didn't respond. Somehow Hassin's comment seemed cold.

"Khalela, are you all right?"

Khalela realized that although Hassin was showing her compassion, she
was being evaluated for future suitability. A subtle trap. She could be
removed from the Mossad based on her next few words. Oddly enough, she
didn't care. Her feelings for Kevin weighed as heavily as her deep
dedication for the Mossad.

She finally lifted her eyes. "Yes, Colonel, I'm fine. Just tired. I feel
like I could sleep for a week."

"And you shall. You have done a terrific job."

"I wouldn't have come out of it alive if it hadn't been for the American
pilot."

"You did what an operative is supposed to do: create contingency plans
in case something goes wrong. In my opinion, this Lieutenant Dalton was
a contingency plan. You used him wisely."

Khalela felt confused. A week ago she would have agreed with Hassin, but
now it was different. She actually felt guilty about having tricked
Kevin the day before, but the professional in her said that she had made
the right decision. She was Mossad, a highly trained operative for the
service of Israel. Her country had spent a great deal of time and money
training her to do what she did best, and now it was time to pay it
back. The problem was that she only now understood the price tag
associated with her job.

"Yes, Colonel, I did use him," she responded, getting up and walking
toward the window, hoping that Hassin did not notice the feelings she
had developed for Kevin. Feelings that now consumed her, Oh, dear Kevin,
I hope you understand why I had to do it.

SOUTHERN IRAQ.

Day Seven. 0600 Local Time.

Delgado had kept his radar dark until the last moment. Flicking the
AWG-9 power switch forward, his Tactical Information Display the most
powerful air-to-air radar in the world-came to life, flooding the air
ahead of the Tomcat with energy. Immediately, Delgado saw tracks
appearing on the TID.

"Two ... no, three bogeys, Crackers! Zero eight zero at one niner miles,
five hundred feet at six hundred knots.

"They're making a run into the zone."

"Not for long. Select Sparrow."

"Sparrow selected."

As Kevin moved the control stick to the right, he watched the Black Jet
fade away in the murky sky. Kramer would continue to Allahbad and make
the pass by himself while Kevin kept the skies clear of enemy craft.

"General Manesh! Look!"

General Abunnasr Manesh jumped off the cot before even opening his eyes.
He stumbled across the room and struggled to focus on the radar screen.
He saw several contacts on the radar screen near Allahbad.

"Again? What is going on? Who are they?"

"These three are ours, sir. They are Mig-21s from a base in Salman Pak.
They were just flying inside the no-fly zone to create a disturbance.
This fourth one came out of nowhere. It must have been flying below
fifty feet."

"Can you contact our fighters?"

"As you wish, General. I Manesh grabbed the microphone from Fassan's
hand. "This is Bakish Wind. You have single contact heading north. One
five miles."

"Do you want us to intercept, over, " reported the Mig's pilot.

"Take no chances. I repeat, no chances. Shoot when in range. Is that
understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

Manesh handed the mike back to Fassan and raced outside.

Kevin Dalton felt safe at his low altitude. He knew that even if the
extensive ground radars managed to detect the low-flying Tomcat, any
interceptors would find it impossible to track him in the ground
clutter. He also knew the Iraqis would be hesitant to get down in the
weeds to look for him.

The TID still tracked three bogeys and assigned firing order priorities
to each. Now it was just a matter of time before they were in range.
Kevin knew his Phoenix and Sparrows could outrange the best of what the
Iraqis could dish out.

"Almost ... got trackin' on all three targets."

"Fire on priority one target!"

The missile rack locking mechanism released an AIM-7F Sparrow I'll. The
missile glided under the Tomcat for a second before the rocket
accelerated it to Mach 4. Kevin saw the bright solid-propellan flash
under the craft followed by the river of light. The semi-active radar
guidance system housed inside the 500-pound missile homed onto the
reflected energy of the Mig illuminated by the Tomcat's fire control
radar.

A few seconds later, Kevin saw a distant flash above the horizon. It
contrasted clearly against the orange-stained sky.

"One down. Tally, Mig-2 1. Four o'clock high."

Kevin frowned. "Don't waste the missiles, Chico! Switching to Kevin
closed on the Mig, lined it up in the sights of his heads-up display and
fired a short burst. The tracers were off to the left. He adjusted, but
the Mig went for a dive. Kevin stayed with it. A short left and right
turn and he had it in his sights once more. Floating his F-14 up to the
Mig, Kevin fired another burst.

With the Mig filling his windscreen, the 20mm cannon came alive,
spitting rounds at the Iraqi jet. Kevin kept the pipper on the Mig as it
went into a steep climb, followed by an inverted dive and left turn. He
fired two-second bursts until he spotted smoke coming out of the Mig's
tail.

"Good shootin'!" Delgado said.

"Where's the third bogey?"

"High three o'clock."

Kevin turned his head to the right and spotted it: a silvery shape
reflecting the early-morning sun's rays. "Got it!"

"Someone's got us locked. Break port now!" shouted Delgado.

"Not a Mig-2 1!" Kevin grunted under the heavy g-load as he racked the
60,000-pound fighter around. The g's continued to hammer him as he
forced the F-14 into an oblique turn.

"Chaff, flares!" Kevin said as he watched the altimeter dash past ten
thousand. He threw the stick forward. The negative g's gave him the
sudden feeling that his stomach was being jammed against his throat as
he leveled off and followed with a tight left turn.

"It went for the chafp"

"Where's the bogey?"

"Tally, single at four, low, nose away. Looks like it's runnin' away."

"We'll see about that!" Kevin pulled the F-14's nose around to cut off
the Mig's escape and got a visual in thirty seconds. He selected an
automatic radar mode.

"Good lock!" cried Delgado.

Kevin centered the Mig's tail in his pipper and hosed off another
Sparrow. The 500-pound missile overtook the Mig. Eighty-eight pounds of
explosives with continuous rods tore off the tail of the Mig with a
bright flash seconds before the Iraqi jet disappeared in a ball of
flames.

"Mayday, May-!" Manesh heard the Mig's pilot scream- over the radio
before it went dead. He cursed out loud into his mask as he rolled his
Mig off the cool tarmac. He remained below fifty feet above ground.

Kevin Dalton pulled back throttles as he resumed course to Allahbad.
Soon the seemingly destroyed complex came into view through the hazy
morning sky. He put his craft into an easy right turn. "Talk to me,
Chico," Kevin asked over the ICS. "Nothin'. Scope's clean."

Kevin scanned the skies for Longhorn Kramer.

With the deafening sound of sirens piercing his eardrums, the young
captain in charge of defending Allahbad raced for one of the surviving
Shilkas parked in front of the complex.

"You, in there!"

The private sitting next to the Shilka's radar dish and searching the
skies with field binoculars snapped his head in the major's direction.

"Yes, sir?"

"What are you waiting for? There's an air strike on the way!"

"That's what we heard, sir, but we can't get a reading ... wait, there
it is!" He pointed at a black shape darting toward the complex. The
private and the major disappeared through the round main door on top of
the armored vehicle and closed it. The Shilka accelerated away from the
complex.

"Get radar lock, quick!"

"It's up to the computer, sir!"

While the Shilka was still moving, the gun dish radar searched, detected
and locked onto the incoming craft. It then automatically sent the
appropriate control signals to the four water-cooled cannons on the
front of the vehicle. The self-propelled Shilka abruptly came to a full
stop before the power-operated turret rotated ninety degrees and the
23mm cannons each opened fire at a cyclic rate of one thousand rounds
per minute.

Kramer put the Black Jet in a gentle dive and reduced throttles as he
opened the bomb bay doors. He activated one Paveway.

Through the HUD, he trained the laser designator on the spot in the
warehouse where Kevin and Halston had told him the service elevator was
located. He locked the laser and released the Paveway.

His craft trembled as several rounds blasted through the sensitive skin
of his jet. Kramer spotted the muzzle flashes and realized his mistake.
Quickly, he rolled the jet over so that the opened bomb bay doors
pointed away from the Shilka, and he pulled the control stick aft. The
laser designator automatically kept the beam dead on target.

The Paveway immediately locked onto the laser, crashed through the
warehouse roof and went off.

Sakkar fell back from the blast that shook the entire structure.

Smoke quickly started to fill the large cavelike room.

"A bomb, Doctor. It crashed against the elevator shaft plate!" screamed
Risha, running toward the elevator doors, which had been blown open by
the shock wave.

"Did it pierce through?" he asked, bringing a handkerchief to his face.

"Can't tell, Doctor."

"Open the vents! Get this smoke out of here, quick!"

"But, sir. That would expose us to-"

"Dammit! Open the vents! We don't have a choice! We must get the smoke
out of here."

Smoke was getting thicker.

"Calm down, Doctor. We're all right."

"You don't understand, Risha. We can't have smoke or a fire in here. The
computer system will start the firing sequence automatically! We have to
wait until we get all the missiles deployed!" He dropped to his knees
and dragged her down. The smoke was getting out of hand. "Quick! The
vents! Get the smoke out, out!"

The young captain felt the earth tremble from the powerful bomb going
off below ground level. He turned to his gunner.

"Why did you stop firing? It is getting away!"

"Lost the signal, sir. The system is malfunctioning!"

"Then go manual, dammit!"

"Yes, sir!"

The gunner flipped the manual override, rotated the turret and elevated
the guns, but the aircraft was already out of range.

Longhorn Kramer watched in surprise as two huge camouflaged circular
doors on the field next to the fence slid open, revealing a pair of wide
tunnels.

Kramer smiled when he spotted the smoke coming up. "They're damned vent
holes! That Paveway hit the jackpot! You were right, Crackers! Gonna go
around for a second pass!"

"We got you covered from up here, " responded Kevin. Kramer went up to
two thousand feet and enabled the second Paveway. A red light blinked
over the CRT display. "Son'a bitch! Fuckin' release mechanism's
malfunctionin'!"

Three thousand yards away, the Shilka's gunner had the Black Jet
centered in the crosshairs of his sighting system. Although the range of
his guns was under two thousand yards, he aimed at a spot slightly "What
in the hell ... above the craft to compensate for the bullet drop. He
fired.

Alarms went off inside the cockpit. Kramer watched his control panel
light up like a Christmas tree. "Whatta hell? Mayday, Mayday! Bastards
hit my left turbofan! Losing hydraulics!"

Kramer pulled out and felt the power loss as he struggled to get his FI
17A away from the Shilka. His control stick shook violently as he forced
the jet into a tight turn. Kramer grabbed the stick with both hands and
completed the turn and climb. Three more blasts.

He felt the excruciating pain as a round managed to break through the
bottom of the fuselage. Burning debris blasted through his left thigh.
"Aghh ... shit!"

Another round punctured the fuselage and exploded under the cockpit. The
CRT blew up under the pressure. The shock wave jammed him back against
the seat. Kramer felt the debris crashing against his chest and bouncing
off his visor. Suddenly a stinging pain came from his legs. He looked
down and saw that the bottom of his flight suit was smoking. The heat
from the round burned him. Smoke quickly filled the cockpit.

With the smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils, Kramer struggled
to get the jet back under control and glanced at the analog
instrumentation. Most of the gauges appeared operational. He put his
right hand on his leg and felt the wound. It was bleeding, but the bone
was not shattered. He could still press it against the rudder pedals,
which he did as he turned the craft around.

Kevin was shocked to see smoke inside the F-117's cockpit. He tried to
use the radio but got no response. Now he watched the crippled Black Jet
turn around.

"Where does he think he's going?" asked Delgado.

"Don't know. The bastard's crazy."

Kramer approached the complex at 300 knots, the maximum speed he could
reach with a single turbofan. He watched the Shilka's turret turning in
his direction and smiled. He pushed the control stick forward and
reached under the seat.

Kevin yelled, "Oh, shit!" as the F-117A dove directly toward the
ventilation tunnels. He followed the black shape from two thousand feet
all the way down to three hundred.

Pull up! What are you waiting ... ?

Kevin's eyes opened wide when he realized what Kramer was trying to
accomplish. He held his breath and praye The canopy blew out of sight as
Kramer felt the powerful blast from the solid-propellant rocket under
the seat. He felt the g's crushing down on his shoulders as he hurtled
higher and higher. His vision narrowed until all went dark.

Sakkar heard a light engine noise. It came from the ventilation holes.
At first he thought it was the sound of jets flying overhead amplified
by the concrete tunnels. Maybe enemy planes making a second pass. He
turned his head toward the elevator shaft expecting a second blast, but
it never came from that direction. He turned around and froze in
disbelief as a huge black object crashed through the steel grillover one
of the emergency ventilation tunnels. Then fire engulfed him.

"Madre de Dios! Look, Crackers!"

"Sweet Jesus!" Kevin stared at the powerful columns of fire that boosted
out of the tunnels and toward the clouds. The blast had been severe.
Suddenly it appeared as if the earth underneath the complex opened and
swallowed the entire site. Most of the structures disappeared in seconds
as the ground trembled and a colossal rift engulfed men, equipment  ...
everything.

"Have you ever seen ... ?"

"Only in an earthquake back in L.A. What in the world was under there?"

"Don't know, but..

"A parachute! It's Longhorn!"

"Well, I'll be damned! That crazy cowboy!"

Kevin made a final pass over the collapsing complex and rocked the wings
of the Tomcat.

"Shit, Crackers. What's that on the ground at three o'clock?"

Kevin moved the stick to the right and banked the craft. He saw four
small explosions, all within a few hundred feet of each other.

"I don't know. Maybe a fuel line to the base, or something like-"

"Crackers! They're missilesilos!"

"What? You're imagining ..." Kevin went quiet as flames spout of each
hole.

"Contact on the nose. Two miles, fast! Tally!"

Kevin shifted his gaze toward the contact. It moved across th before he
had a chance to blink. "It's that Mig again!"

He looked back at the ballistic missiles slowly lifting off. He knew
that in another thirty seconds they would be out of reach.
Instinctively, he pushed full throttles and afterburners and put his
craft into a shallow dive and activated the cannon. He eyed the fuel
gauges. Ten thousand poundsleft.

Kevin came in from the north at 650 knots. He put the pipper on the
closest missile, just barely clearing the silo. He fired three short
bursts. Nothing. The missile continued to climb. Kevin adjusted his fire
and tried again. Four two-second bursts. Blow, dammit! The missile
disintegrated and went off in a bright cloud.

"Great shot. Tally. Single. Seven o'clock low!"

Kevin frowned as he spotted the Mig a few thousand feet behind him.

"Locked. He's got us locked!"

"Fuck him! I'm going for the missiles!" Kevin said, knowing that doing
so would give the Mig a great position in a dogfight. But he didn't have
a choice; he had to stop the nuclear missiles. Kevin did a one-eighty
and came back around for a second pass at the ballistic missiles.

"Select Sidewinder."

The radar locked and the Sidewinder seeker head slaved to the closest
heat source and began buzzing.

"Good lock. Shoot!" said Delgado.

Kevin released it, and the 180-pound missile reached its target a few
seconds later.

The resulting explosion created a larger ball of flame, momentarily
reaching up to the sky. Two more to go.

"Mig's got us locked ... missile in the air! Break to port!" warned
Delgado.

Kevin pumped chaff and flares and threw the Tomcat into a wickedly tight
turn. He leveled off, pumped more decoys, and rolled the plane onto its
back before diving.

"Missile went for the flares! Tally. Bogey at our six!" Delgado said as
Kevin leveled off fifty feet above the ground. He silently cursed the
Mig as he watched the last two ballistic missiles, roughly a thousand
feet above him, quickly gather speed.

As the Mig came around, obviously trying to get behind the Tomcat, Kevin
Dalton knew that he had to try to reach those missiles, even if it cost
him the dogfight. And so he did, jamming the throttles to full power and
entering a vertical climb in full afterburners.

"The Mig's at eight o'clock low," said Delgado.

"The hell with him. I'm going after the missiles!"

The Tomcat rocketed toward the heavens, toward the silvery shapes of the
missiles Kevin could not allow to reach their target, but the ballistic
missiles had already gone supersonic. Kevin glanced at the information
painted on the HUD. His indicated airspeed was only 500 knots and
dropping as he thundered above ten thousand feet. He would not be able
to get close enough to use the cannon.

"Dammit. They're getting away! Select Sidewinder!"

"Trying, trying!"

A moment later he heard the infrared buzzer going off, and he released a
Sidewinder. t The heat-seeking missile streaked upward as its electronic
brain tracked one of the ballistic missiles.

Kevin watched as the Sidewinder's contrail closed in on the large
missile, until the 180-pound missile went off with a bright flash.

As his indicated airspeed dropped to 375 knots, Kevin Dalton waited for
something to happen, but the Iraqi missile continued its upward drive.
Then he understood. The hottest part of the ballistic missile-where the
Sidewinder had locked on-was several feet below the missile's nozzle.
The twenty-five-pound warhead had done nothing to the rocketing nuclear
missile.

"Select Phoenix!" Kevin ordered.

"Wh-what?"

"Dammit, Chico. Give me a Phoenix!"

"Won't work! The system's not designed for-"

"Fuck the system. You get me a lock! Bastards are getting away!"

Delgado exhaled as he put the AWG-9 into Pulse-Doppler Singletarget
Track (PDSTT), a mode which concentrated all of the power of the AWG-9
antenna onto a single long-range target at ranges of up to seventy
nautical miles, giving range, range rate, and angular data. The software
running through the system was not designed to track ballistic missiles
accelerating past Mach 2. Delgado just hoped that using the AWG-9 system
in PDSTT mode would give him his best shot. He was right. The Tomcat's
powerful tracking radar locked onto the ascending missile.

"I'll be damned. Gotta lock, Crackers!"

Kevin released a Phoenix as his airspeed dropped below 200 knots.

The Hughes AIM-54 Phoenix missile left the underside pallet and hurtled
skyward. Since the Iraqi missile was only one mile away, the Phoenix
automatically switched to its own internal target-acquisition program.

The amber stall lights came on: airspeed 120 knots. "Shit!" Topping out
at nineteen thousand feet, Kevin inverted and dove to avoid entering a
spin, but not before he saw the third Iraqi missile burst in midair as
the Phoenix struck the nose section.

The last missile was now a distant light in the morning sky. Kevin
watched it as he leveled off and searched the sky above him. I'll never
catch it.

"Tally. Single at our six!" warned Delgado.

Kevin glanced at the Mig behind them. He had let him get too close, and
he knew it would be very difficult to get the Iraqi off his tail. He
executed a series of tight turns, dives, and climbs to no avail. The Mig
remained at his six o'clock.

"Can't shake him off"

The Mig opened fire.

Kevin cut left, but not before a river of bullets ripped across the
starboard wing, creating small clouds of white debris. He broke left and
checked for cautions. None.

"The Mig's closing again!" Delgado yelled as they dove below ten
thousand feet at Mach 1.

"Bastard's trying to get an angle-" Kevin's words were cut short by the
thundering blast from the Mig's cannon. An image flickered in his mind.
It was of Lancaster's head snapping forward as the canopy was blown to
pieces. Then there were the visions of him running away from the cannons
and toward Abdul. The ground around him exploding with bullets as his
Kurdish friend waved him over to the cave. Khalela screamed for him to
hurry. Kevin remembered kicking his legs against the sand until they
would not go any faster, then he had jumped.

Another river of bullets blasted across the port wing. Kevin threw the
stick to the left and placed the craft in a tight turn, pulling maximum
g. He watched the vapor pouring off the wingtips as he sank into his
seat. His vision tunneled and his limbs tingled. His G suit inflated,
keeping his blood from accumulating in his legs. Fighting the hammering
g's, Kevin followed the evasive move by pushing the stick forward. Now
the g's turned negative, ferociously pushing him up against his
restraint harness. Blood rushed to his face and the world changed to
palettes of red as the capillaries in his eyeballs inflated. The
pressure eased. He glanced back. The Mig could not keep up momentarily,
but soon was on his tail again.

Kevin eyed the fuel gauges once more: eight hundred pounds. He had
consumed a great deal of fuel by using burners. He was now flying on
fumes, probably not enough to keep him airborne for ten minutes, much
less enough to make it back. He pulled back throttles.

"What are you doing?" Delgado screamed.

"Get ready to eject, Chico!"

Kevin watched the Mig position itself behind them.

"Let's do it, Crackers!"

"Not yet! Wait." He reduced throttles even more.

"Madre de Dios. Why are you slowin' down? He's right on our tail! I can
see the bastard's face! Let's get outta here!"

Kevin eyed the airspeed indicator: 500 knots. Too fast. "Get ready,
Chico!"

The Mig opened fire.

"Eject us both on count!" ordered Kevin.

"You're fuckin' crazy, man!"

Kevin reached for the air brakes lever, the flap lever, and the landing
gear handle. The first few rounds pierced through the canopy. Several
more ripped across the aluminum layers of the starboard wing. Bits and
pieces of the wing washed away in the slipstream.

"Madre de- "

"On count! Three ... two ... one ... now!"

Kevin slapped the landing gear down and pulled up all air brakes and
lowered flaps as the canopy was blown up.

He felt the windblast crashing against his chest. His body was thrown
up, to the side, and flipped upside down. The g's pushed down on him
with titanic force. Again he watched in a blur as the sky and desert
changed places, but his senses were quickly clouded by the extreme
pressure. His vision narrowed and his limbs tingled. His mind hung at
the edge of unconsciousness but he refused to fall into it, holding on
until his ears registered the sound he so desperately hoped he would
hear. Suddenly his body was further propelled through the air as the
shock wave from the midair collision reached him. In spite of the
harrowing pain, Lieutenant Kevin Dalton managed a thin smile.

His last conscious feeling came from the jerk of the deployed parachute.
It temporarily shielded his eyes from the brilliant morning sun.

Then there was peace.

Bourdeaux watched the operator sitting at the controls of the MIM- 1 04
Patriot tactical air-defense system furiously typing commands on the
keyboard.

"Got one missile from Allahbad on a ballistic trajectory to Riyadh, sir!

Looks like our guys could only nail three. One got away!"

"Range?" asked Halston.

"Sixty miles and closing. It'll be within our reach for thirty seconds
in exactly twenty seconds."

"Engage!"

"Yes sir! Range fifty miles. Speed Mach 1.3. Visual in fifteen seconds!"

Halston ran outside. Bourdeaux went after him. They both scanned the
skies.

"There! See it, Bob?"

Bourdeaux shifted his gaze to a bright point in the sky. "Got it!"

Four Patriots left their red-hot M-901 launch station. The operator
wasn't taking any chances. The dark contrails streaked through e morning
sky as the 2200-pound missiles blasted to Mach 3. The rivers of smoke
continued in an intercept trajectory with the bright spot Bourdeaux had
spotted several seconds before.

One bright flash. Quickly followed by two others. Three Patriots had
reached their target. Dark, smoking debris began to fall back to earth
in the distance. Bourdeaux silently followed it all the way down to
about five hundred feet Robert Bourdeaux instinctively brought both
hands to his face to shield them from the brightest flash he'd seen in
his life, and the sudden realization of what that meant sent a chill
through his tired body.

The flash. The blinding flash that resulted from nuclear fission. The
incandescent outburst of light from a chain reaction started in a
one-kilogram, sphere-shaped plutonium core after being compressed to
half its size by a perfectly symmetrical implosion of high explosive
plastic. As the HEP increased the density of the plutonium 239, a
neutron initiator collided against a single plutonium atom with a force
large enough to split it in half, releasing a small amount of energy in
the form of light and heat, as well as releasing a few more neutrons,
which in turn collided with other plutonium atoms, causing further
fission, which released more neutrons. The multiplication, which took
close to eighty generation to absorb the plutonium mass, was over in one
millionth of a second, producing the energy equivalent to 20,000
thousand tons of TNT.

"Shut your eyes! Don't look at the light!" Bourdeaux shouted at Halston
as he dove for the cover of a truck, but by that time the initial flash
had ended. Slowly, he shifted his gaze at the sky and saw a rapidly
developing fireball rising up to the sky roughly fifteen miles away. The
ball reached about two thousand feet in height before cooling off,
forming the familiar mushroom-shaped cloud with a column of smoke and
dust.

"Everyone reach cover!" Bourdeaux shouted. The size of the mushroom told
Bourdeaux that the warhead had been no larger than twenty kilotons,
which meant that with ground zero over fifteen miles away, the thermal
and shock wave that should soon reach their position would be mild. He
was right.

Even though the sound was intimidating, the wind and heat that soon
engulfed them was a mere fraction of the inferno that had been the
square mile surrounding ground zero, where the blast wave, heating the
air to incandescence, had moved outward in all directions at an initial
velocity greater than the speed of sound. Soon a second blast wave
reached his position from the opposite direction as cool air rushed back
to fill the partial vacuum created by the explosion. Radiation effects
this far away would be almost negligible.

With the mushroom still visible in the distance, Robert Bourdeaux got up
and looked back at Kenneth Draper, still wearing his robe and moving
slowly away from a truck. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked to
his right. It was Halston, and he wore a mask of disbelief.

"Jesus, Bob. The bastard already had them."

In spite of the shock, for the first time in days Robert Bourdeaux, CIA
Operations Officer, smiled broadly. "That's right, ol' buddy. He had
them."

BAGHDAD. Day Seven. 0725 Local Time.

The phone rang. Then it stopped. Then it rang again. The Iraqi leader
crawled over the warm body of the Syrian woman sleeping next to him and
picked up the phone. He froze after hearing the news.

Impossible. It was simply impossible.

Cursing his luck, Saddam pressed a fist against his mouth while
listening to the voice of one of his generals. Allahbad had been
destroyed, and what was worse, one of the missiles had been fired and it
had gone off near the border with Saudi Arabia. The secret was out.

The Syrian woman rolled over next to him. Giggling, half asleep, her
hands reached down for his groin.

Saddam, still holding the phone to his ear, grabbed the Makarov, cocked
it and, after abruptly getting up, fired twice into the woman's chest.

Three of his bodyguards stormed the room, the general on the phone
shouted, and Saddam, naked, dropped the weapon. The woman, convulsing,
coughed up blood and foam before going limp.

"Great One! Are you all right?" asked the general on the phone.

Saddam exhaled. "Yes."

"But the shots, the noise!"

"Do not worry."

"Yes, Great One."

Saddam hung up and motioned his bodyguards to clean up the mess. He
grabbed a robe next to the bed and put it on as a young major walked
into the room, briefly looked at the naked woman being dragged away by
the bodyguards, and snapped to attention.

"Great One. I have a message from the field general of our deployed
forces. He is requesting further instructions."

With his mind still trying to absorb the events of the past thirty
seconds, Saddam Hussein closed his eyes, muttering through his teeth,
"Tell him to pull back."

EPILOG

THE WHITE HOUSE. Day Ten. 0930 Local Time.

For the first time in his life, Robert Bourdeaux walked into the Oval
Office. A smiling President Clinton, dressed in a dark gray suit and
maroon tie stood up from behind his desk, quickly walked around it and
met Bourdeaux in the middle of the light blue carpeted room, right over
the embroidered presidential seal. They shook hands.

"This is a real honor, Mr. President."

"No, sir. The honor is mine," the American Commander in Chief responded,
blue eyes gleaming at Bourdeaux.

"Thank you, sir," the CIA officer responded.

The president had plenty of reason to smile. Saddam Hussein had quickly
retreated, stopped all flights over the no-fly zone, and given U.N.
teams unconditional freedom of movement and inspection inside Iraq after
it became evident that his nuclear project had come to an embarrassing
end. All the nations of the world were enraged at the news of Saddam
firing nuclear missiles at Tel Aviv, Riyadh, Tehran, and Kuwait City.
Had it not been for the Americans, their intelligence agency, and their
military equipment, the Middle East would be embroiled in war now. But
as it turned out, Saddam's short-lived nuclear empire had fueled an
unprecedented peace process in the region.

"Mr. Bourdeaux, you have done your country-and the world-a great
service. Your work saved the lives of millions, and for that I salute
you."

Bourdeaux felt overwhelmed and also uncomfortable. Flattery made him
feel uneasy, and coming from the president himself. He settled for a
simple, "Thank you, Mr. President."

Clinton, still smiling, slowly shook his head. "No, Mr. Bourdeaux. Thank
you.

RIYADH, SAUDI AP.ABIA.

Day Twelve. 1500 Local Time.

Lieutenant Kevin Dalton looked out the hospital window, watching local
merchants sell their goods at the downtown bazaar. Taxis made their way
through the crowded street to the complaints of pedestrians slamming
their hands against the hoods and screaming words Kevin hoped he would
soon never have to hear again.

He put down the copy of the Washington Post he'd just finished reading
for the third time. Iraq had pulled back all its forces after the
nuclear blast, and the peace process was in an upswing again. The
Clinton administration had managed to avoid a war, but peace had come
only after several brave men had lost their lives. Men like Lancaster,
Ishmael, Abdul, Poole, and others.

Casualties of war. Kevin swallowed the lump in his throat that came
whenever he thought about his RIO. The rescue team had found Chico
Delgado's broken body still strapped to his seat. The parachute had
never opened. The seat had malfunctioned. A one in a million chance and
it had happened to Delgado. Chico.

Longhorn Kramer had been luckier. He was in a room two doors down, where
doctors had him drugged with morphine. His legs were covered with scar
tissue.

Kevin reached for a white envelope on the nightstand. He opened it and
removed a folded sheet of paper. It had the presidential seal on the top
of the page. His eyes read the handwritten note from President Bill
Clinton calling him the last of the true heroes. In addition, all
charges against him had been silently dropped.

How ironic, Kevin thought as he watched a tall nurse walk into his room.
Her back was to him. One day he was an insubordinate outcast, the next
he was a hero. But even under Kevin's new status, Commander John Mcdeere
had requested for Kevin to be transferred to another air wing. Kevin
sighed.

"Morning," he said, noticing that the nurse was not the old woman who
had been taking care of him for the past few days.

"Hello, Kevin." She turned around. The face, the eyes, the smile: it was
all there once again. "I came to thank you for what you did."

Kevin raised his eyebrows. "Khalela? What are you-"

"Shh, not so loud. So I guess you did it."

"It had to be done. I didn't see anyone else signing up to do it."

"My government is grateful for what you did. We believe our nation was
the primary target for the missiles at Allahbad. Although we would never
publicly acknowledge our ties with you, I was instructed by my
government to personally thank you for destroying those missiles. You
saved a lot of lives. If we can ever be of service to you, all you have
to do is ask."

Kevin turned his head and stared out the window once more.

"I am sorry about your RIO. I heard that-"

Kevin shifted his gaze back to Khalela. "He was a good friend. I'll miss
Chico. But you, Khalela ... why did you do it? Why didn't you come with
me? I was crushed, alone. I needed you."

"I am sorry. You do not know how hard it was for me to do what I did at
the village." She walked up to the side of his bed.

Kevin put his hand on hers. "Somehow I knew you'd be back."

"I cannot stay long, Kevin. I came to say thanks and also to say
good-bye."

Kevin stared into her magical light green eyes, gleaming with bold
intelligence. "Why, Khalela? Why must you punish yourself and me this
way? I love you and I know you love me, otherwise you wouldn't be here
right now. I want you to stay with-"

"It just cannot be. Please understand. It would not work. Our worlds are
too different, and my country needs me now more than ever. PAAPS one day
..."

Kevin kissed her hand. "You will always have a special place in my
heart, Khalela Yishaid ... perhaps one day."

She gave him a warm smile and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek.
Kevin softly pressed the side of her face against his.

"Good-bye, Kevin Dalton."

He didn't respond. Instead he simply closed his eyes, once more letting
her overwhelming warmth caress away the pain. Her touch, her smell, her
soft hair brushed against his tears. For one last time, Kevin Dalton
surrendered himself to the soothing comfort of her nearness.