Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (46 page)

 
          
“You
think because I live in the desert I don’t know about such things?” the man
asked. “I read
Popular Science
and
Aviation Week & Space Technology.
I
read about the exoskeleton your friends over there are wearing in the
London
Times.
I didn’t know they actually came out with something, though. Very interesting.”

 
          
“Who
are you?”

 
          
“It
appears we’re not doing names today,” the stranger said, “so I don’t have an
answer for you now. What I do require of you is to put your weapons down on the
ground and raise your hands.”

 
          
“That
will not happen,” Chris Wohl said.

 
          
“By
the sound of it, I think you must be the noncommissioned officer in charge of
this team,” the stranger said. Patrick noticed then how young the man was under
his black Kevlar helmet wrapped with a white turban, chocolate-chip battle
dress uniform, green Nomex flying gloves, and thick-soled heavy-tread knee-high
tanker boots. When he moved, Patrick actually noticed a black shirt underneath
his BDUs, with a white shirt underneath that made it appear as if he were
wearing a cleric’s collar. “But you will be silent now. I am in command of this
area, and you are the trespassers.” He turned to Luger, shook his head. “And
you, sir, are not the commander of this force.” He looked over to the others.
“I will speak to him now.”

 
          
Patrick
stepped forward. “What do you mean, you are in command of this area? We’re in
Egypt
.”

 
          
The
man turned, and Patrick noticed a smile on his youthful face. “I assume I am
addressing the infamous Castor. Finally.”

 
          
“You
are very astute, sir,” Patrick said. “Who are you?”

 
          
“Since
we are now talking in code words, I am called
Dabbur
—the wasp,” the stranger said. “We are called the
Hubub
—the sandstorm. And this is my
desert. It has been so for nearly two hundred years. We have protected it for
that long. It is not about lines on a map or governments.”

 
          
“Your
intelligence system is effective—Your Highness.”

           
The man smiled, which made him look
even younger than he looked at first. He issued a command in Arabic, and his
men lowered their weapons.

 
          
“Who
is he, Muck?” Hal Briggs asked.

 
          
“His
Royal Highness, Sayyid Muhammad ibn al-Hasan as-Sanusi, the true king of
Libya
,” Patrick said. The man smiled, shouldered
his weapon, and bowed in thanks for the recognition and proper address. “The
sword of vengeance of the
Sahara
and
leader of the ‘Sandstorm,’ the Sanusi Brotherhood.”

 
          
“You
got it,” Muhammad as-Sanusi said. “And who are you—other than trouble of the
first magnitude around here?”

 
          
“Friends—as
long as you don’t align yourself with Jadallah Zuwayy.”

 
          
“You
mean my ‘sixth brother,’ Jadallah the Brave, the protector of Islam and the
savior of the people of
Libya
? Give me a break,” Sanusi said disgustedly.
He took off his helmet and poured water from a canteen on his face. He had a
thin, triangular face, wide eyes, and a ready smile, even while deriding
someone. “But what pisses me off even more is that the people of
Libya
really bought his bucket of bullshit.” He
looked carefully at Patrick, then nodded. “You know my good ‘brother,’ then? So
I assume you’re the devil robot that nearly destroyed Jaghbub and scared the
living shit out of him?”

 
          
“Maybe.
How do you know about that?”

 
          
“Zuwayy’s
men blabbed it all over open channels all last night—you couldn’t shut it off,”
Sanusi said. “I think your impromptu nose job improved his looks. And of
course, we saw your fireworks show from twenty miles away. Very impressive.
Some of my radar outposts picked up traces of an aircraft still orbiting west
of here—your air support, I gather?”

 
          
“We
came close to taking out your men here with our air support.”

 
          
“Unless
you have EMP-proof radios, I doubt it,” Sanusi said dryly. “We lost contact
with all our patrols the instant that device went off. God in heaven, I always
suspected Zuwayy had nukes, but I never thought he’d be stupid enough to
actually use them.”

 
          
“You
don’t talk like an Arab, Your Highness.”

 
          
“Oh,
I can talk Arab just fine when I need to,” Sanusi said. “But I’ve lived in the
States for the past five years, and I picked up the lingo pretty well.” He held
out his canteen to Patrick. “Can you drink water through that thing?”

           
“Yes,” Patrick said—but then he
disconnected his helmet, pulled it off, and accepted the canteen. “But I prefer
not to.” He grimaced at the canteen.

           
“Don’t worry—it’s purified,” Sanusi
said. “I’ve lived in the States too long to drink the local water, especially
from the oases. I may be the sword of vengeance of the
Sahara
, but the worst my stomach can handle is L.
A. tap water. My men can drink month-old camel piss dug out of a hole in the
desert if they had to, but not me. I’ve got plenty of purification tablets in
there.” Patrick took a deep swig, then handed it back. “What’s your name?”

 
          
“McLanahan.
Patrick McLanahan.”

 
          
“Good
Irish name,” Sanusi said. “Who are you guys? Where do you get all that firepower?
U.S.
Army Special Forces? Delta Force? Navy
SEALs?”

           
“None of the above.”

 
          
“Ah.
Some supersecret commando job, contracted by the CIA or something,” Sanusi
said, taking a drink. When Patrick did not reply, Sanusi merely shrugged. “My
men will find out eventually. We have spies everywhere, and neither the
Egyptians nor the Libyans can keep a secret— they all think once you get out
into the desert, no one can hear you. I heard a report that the lovely Mrs.
Salaam and General Baris had been meeting with some special infantry teams at
Mersa Matruh—I assume that’s you. Good thing you got out when you did.”

 
          
“Some
of our guys were not so lucky.”

 
          
“The
prisoner exchange,” Sanusi said, nodding. “I heard. I’m sorry, Patrick. So it
was you guys in on that raid at Samah that started this whole mess.”

 
          
“We
didn’t start it—but we mean to finish it,” Patrick said ominously.

 
          
“I’m
sure you guys are tough—and you’re going to have to be, to go up against Zuwayy
and his troops,” Sanusi said. “They’ve got some mean-looking shit all of a
sudden—new Russian weapons, armor, rockets, aircraft, the works, hundreds of
millions of dollars’ worth. Zuwayy’s either been investing some of the money he
and his cronies have been ripping off from the Libyan treasury and buying weapons
on the international arms market with it, or he’s got a wealthy new Russian
sponsor.”

 
          
That
last comment set off nightmarish explosions in Patrick’s head, but he ignored
the warning bells for the moment. “We could use your help to get back to
Cairo
.”

 
          
“
Cairo
? What in hell do you want to go back there
for?” Sanusi asked in surprise. “I thought you said you were escapees from
Mersa Matruh.”

           
“We were being held there during the
prisoner exchange so we wouldn’t interfere.”

 
          
“Oh
really? You sure it wasn’t so they’d be sure to fry you just like your
friends?” Sanusi noticed Patrick’s face blanch and harden to stone, and he put
a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, McLanahan. You lost some of your men
in that explosion, I know.”

           
Even though Patrick was beginning to
trust this man, he still did not feel like elaborating. “
Egypt
is wide open for attack. We can help stop
Zuwayy until the rest of the world organizes a defense against him.”

 
          
“What
makes you think they will?” Sanusi asked. “Who will lead them—Thomas Nathaniel
Thom, the so-called leader of the free world? He’s too busy having seances so
he can communicate with the spirit of Thomas Jefferson.

 
          
“Patrick,
no one cares about
Libya
or
Egypt
—all they care about is the oil,” Muhammad
Sanusi said. “It’s been that way since the Brits discovered oil here. The world
will deal with anyone who will sell oil to them—they don’t care if it’s Salaam,
Zuwayy, Khan, or Bozo the Clown. And when the oil runs out, the world will turn
its back on this entire continent. All Arabs know the score, Patrick— I’m
surprised you don’t. Do you really believe you’re here fighting for justice or
to protect the weak? You’re here because of the oil—how to get it, how to keep
it coming. I don’t care who your employer or commander is—you’re here because
of the oil. Am I right, my friend?”

 
          
Patrick
didn’t answer—he didn’t have to. King Idris the Second, the true king of
Libya
, nodded knowingly. “You want to fight for
Susan Bailey Salaam? Well, I don’t blame you—she is definitely one hot babe,
even after taking one in the face in
Cairo
.” He paused for a moment; then: “Sure is
lucky she survived that blast, wasn’t it?” Patrick said nothing—he couldn’t,
because he didn’t know anything about her or the incident at the mosque. “You’re
sure you want to do this?”

 
          
“I’m
sure.”

 
          
“Okay.
But I still contend: Why go back to
Cairo
? That’s where the action’s going to be
soon. Either Zuwayy will chew it to pieces with his army, or it’ll collapse
under the pressure of its own loss of identity. Why would you, an American,
hang around for that?”

 
          
“You
gotta fight for something.”

 
          
“Sure
you do. Home, family, God. I’m out here in the Sahara with my men instead of
back at The Resort at Squaw Creek up in Lake Tahoe or my three-bedroom suite
that my buddy Mohammed al Fayed owns at the Hotel Bel Air because Qadhafi
chased my family out of our own country, and Zuwayy is busy raping what’s
left.” Then he stopped and looked knowingly at Patrick. “Unless you’ve already
lost those things—then you fight for whatever captures your heart—or your soul.
Has Susan Bailey Salaam done that for you, Mr. McLanahan?” Patrick did not—
could
not—answer.

 
          
Muhammad
as-Sanusi looked carefully at Patrick; then, apparently noticing something in
the man’s face, he smiled and winked. “Man, you are one out-of-place dude,” he
said. “I’m not sure exactly
where
you’re supposed to be, but it is
not
here in the desert, wearing metal pajamas and carrying a Buck Rogers space
gun.” Again, Patrick couldn’t respond. “Whatever. I still think it would be
suicidal for you and your men to go back to
Cairo
or anywhere in
Egypt
. But I have the perfect place. If you agree
to work with me and my soldiers, I’ll bring you there and you guys can set up
and work there.”

 
          
“Where
is this place?”

 
          
“Not
far. About a half-day drive, assuming we don’t run into any patrols.” He looked
at Chris and Hal, still in their battle armor, smiled that boyish smile again,
then added, “But I think we can probably handle any patrols we run across out
here. Let’s go.”