Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 (5 page)

 
          
Khalid
al-Khan bowed deeply to Zuwayy, then took the Libyan’s extended hand and
touched it tenderly to both cheeks. Al-Khan was in his late forties, a
fundamentalist Sunni Muslim cleric who led the fight in 1980 as a
firebrand—some said fanatic—to make the Shari’a, the Islamic legal code, the
basis of Egyptian law; before that, the law had been a mishmash of English
common law and even Napoleonic code, with a healthy dose of Turkish law thrown
in to confuse everyone. The highest-ranking cleric in
Egypt
, al-Khan was an advocate of an even greater
role of fundamentalist Islamic rule in
Egypt
and was very vocal in his opposition to
both the Mubarak and Salaam governments. Al-Khan was dressed similarly to
Zuwayy, with traditional Arab robes and turban.

 
          
“Majesty,
it is an honor to meet you,” al-Khan breathed. “May the blessings of the
Prophet be upon you forever and always.”

 
          
“And
to you, my son,” Zuwayy replied. He looked aghast at Salaam as if to say, “That
is how you pay proper respect to your superior.” “The Prophet of course allows
the faithful to pray anywhere,” Zuwayy said to Salaam, “but He always looks
with extreme favor on those who join together with their brothers in prayer.”

 
          
“My
apologies, Highness,” Salaam said.

 
          
“I
see you prefer to wear the clothing of a
mushrikun
as well,” Zuwayy added. “You have also shaved your beard, of which Allah
almighty also disapproves. At least you still observe the
adab al-imama
he added, motioning to Salaam’s turban, “although it
does not appear to be the proper length, as prescribed by His Holiness the
Prophet. You shall be instructed as to—”

 
          
“Mr.
President... er, Highness,” Salaam interjected, purposely getting his title
wrong just to irk the Libyan, “Allah, praise his name, knows the hearts and
minds of all men. I am his servant, and I serve him in my own way.”

           
“The Prophet has told us how we
must serve God,” Zuwayy responded sternly. “If it is in our power, we must
obey. Please do not mock the Prophet or the faithful by telling us that not
joining in prayer is a proper way to praise Allah. You must—”

 
          
“I’ll
take that under advisement, Highness,” Salaam interrupted again. He bowed to
Zuwayy, as did his wife; neither the Libyan nor al-Khan acknowledged his
gesture. “If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for my welcoming address. Until
this evening.” He turned and stepped away before Zuwayy could say anything
else.

 
          
The
two greeted other guests and visitors, but were soon escorted by staff members
to the front of the great hall and were quickly instructed on the day’s events.
“It is not a good idea to anger Zuwayy, Kamal,” Susan said to her husband in a
low voice. “He commands much respect in
North Africa
and elsewhere. The fundamentalists love
him, and most of his enemies fear him.”

 
          
“He
is a popinjay and a pretender,” Salaam said disgustedly. “We all thought
Colonel Qadhafi was a ruthless dictator, but Zuwayy is a hundred times worse. I
had hoped a real al-Sanusi had taken over the Libyan government— then perhaps
we’d see peace in our lifetime. Unfortunately,
Egypt
and most of
Europe
has to prepare to defend itself against
whatever power-mad move he and his Mujahadeen crackpots will come up with.” He
glanced over his shoulder and noticed al-Khan still speaking with Zuwayy. “Or
maybe we should be defending ourselves against the enemy right in our own
house.”

 
          
“Khalid
al-Khan may not be one of your staunchest supporters, Kamal,” Susan said, “but
he represents the loyal opposition.”

 
          
Salaam
smiled, then squeezed his wife’s hand tenderly. “My wife, you are one of the most
intelligent and thoughtful women I have ever known, on a par with the greatest
minds, in our great country, but you know so little of power politics,” Salaam
said. ‘Ten years in the U.S. Air Force as an intelligence officer is indeed
impressive but insignificant experience compared to one year sitting across a
People’s Assembly chamber arguing with men like Zuwayy and al-Khan. They and
other members of the ‘loyal opposition’ would just as soon throw a punch or an
insult as they would squish a fig.”

 
          
“You
think I am really that innocent, Kamal?” Susan asked playfully.

 
          
Salaam
basked in the unearthly glow of her sly smile. “I would never accuse you of
being ‘innocent,’ my love,” he said. “But even scholars and
ulamas
like Khan have no compunction
about going outside the law to get what they want. There is too much at stake
for them, both in this world and in the next. They are fanatical—they believe
they are on a mission, their actions fully justified and sanctioned by God. The
nation, the land, even their homes, means nothing to them compared to what they
perceive as the will of Allah. That vision obscures everything.” His eyes
narrowed, and his grip on his wife’s hand tightened. “Always be watchful for
the enemy. Trust no one. Question everything.”

 
          
“All
I have to do to learn about the real world is watch you, Kamal,” Susan said.
“The one thing I trust is your love for your country and your people.”

 
          
“And
my love for you, Sekhmet,” Salaam said, using the ancient Egyptian nickname he
had given her, which meant “huntress.” “My love comes before the people, the
country, even before God. Never forget that.”

 
          
“And
my love for you is greater than all of our enemies and evil anywhere in the
world,” Susan said. “When you think all are against you, I will always be by
your side.” “Unfortunately, your place now needs to be behind me,” Salaam said,
giving his wife a smile when he noticed her exasperated expression. “You may be
loved by everyone in
Egypt
, but you are still expected to walk behind
your husband, not beside him, at least on this holy day.”

 
          
“Of
course, my husband,” she replied. Susan gave her husband another soft kiss on
the side of his lips, then stepped back the required two paces behind and to
her husband’s left, her hands folded before her, her eyes averted. She knew her
place well: Dwelling in a nation tom between the past, the present, and the
future, it was best to not give traditionalists like Zuwayy, al-Khan, and their
followers any reason to question the loyalty or morals of then- country’s leaders.
A few moments later, the Republican Guard security forces opened the doors of
the great hall, indicating that the procession was about to begin.

 
          
Past
the Gates of Sultan Qayt Bay, a large courtyard with several ornate minarets
and
qibla
prayer walls separated the
Madrasa from the main sanctuary, where the speeches and prayer services for
President Salaam’s guests would take place. The path through the courtyard from
the tomb to the sanctuary was lined with soldiers, with clergy and other
invited guests pressing against the soldiers to watch the procession.

 
          
It
was Susan, not Kamal, who noticed two unusual things as they proceeded across
the courtyard: First, the soldiers lining the procession route were not
Presidential Guards, assigned to the protection of the president, but
paramilitary soldiers from a unit she did not recognize; and second, they were
facing the procession, their backs to the crowd instead of facing them. She
turned to look for the Presidential Guard captain who had been stationed at the
door to the Madrasa, but he was nowhere to be seen.

 
          
As
she looked, her eyes caught those of Jadallah Zuwayy, walking several steps
behind her. He nodded reassuringly to her, then glanced at Khalid al-Khan and
nodded. Susan turned and looked at al-Khan, noticing the silent signal between
the two. What was going on here? Why were they—?

 
          
Bedlam
suddenly erupted. A soldier shouted something from the Madrasa—someone had been
killed? Is that what he shouted? It was hard to tell—his voice was strained with
pain or fear. There was purposeful movement in the crowd of onlookers, not a
random milling about but a determined surge forward. The soldiers guarding the
procession line, their backs to the crowd, noticed nothing—even when two men in
traditional
thawb, sirwal
,
rida,
and turbans burst past them.

 
          
“Kamal!”
Susan shouted. “Look out!” But suddenly she was grabbed from behind. It was
al-Khan. He held her tightly by the arms, pressed her toward him, leered
hungrily at her, then shoved her forcefully back toward Zuwayy. The Libyan
pretender-king grasped her, then said something in a low, soft voice. “What are
you doing, Majesty? What is going on?”

 
          
“I
said, do not worry, my child,” Zuwayy said. “Allah the almighty shall protect
all true believers and servants of God.”

 
          
Susan
spun around until she was facing Kamal, still in Zuwayy’s grasp but being
pulled backward, away from her husband. Up ahead of her, one of the strangers
who had crashed unchecked through the security line grabbed President Salaam
from behind, while another grasped him from in front. Once the man in front had
a firm grip on Salaam, the man behind turned, raised his hands, and shouted,
“Death to all
kuffarl
Death to all
enemies of God! The Muslim Brotherhood is Allah’s sword of justice this day!”

 
          
The
man in front of Kamal opened his cloak—and revealed several sticks of
explosives and a detonator strapped to his abdomen.

 
          
“La!”
Susan screamed in Arabic. “
Imshi!
Get away! Kamal!” She twisted
easily away from Zuwayy. One of the paramilitary soldiers beside Zuwayy tried
to grab her. She clawed her way free and took a running step toward her shocked
husband . .. just as a brilliant flash of light, an impossibly loud explosion
of sound, and an incredible blast of heat erupted right in front of her. She
had a momentary image of Kamal Ismail Salaam’s body and that of his attacker
being blown apart like firecrackers, before a giant invisible force threw her
backward and darkness closed over her. . ..

BLYTHEVILLE
,
ARKANSAS

 
          
The
dark-clad figure turned, slowly, smoothly, menacingly. The blank, staring eyes
were expressionless, robotic. The figure lifted a weapon from the floor, an
immense Ml68 six-barreled Vulcan cannon, and pointed it right at Patrick
McLanahan. From less than thirty meters away, he could not miss. The cannon,
normally mounted on a large vehicle like an armored personnel carrier, could
fire hot-dog-sized shells at up to three thousand rounds a minute—there would
be nothing left of his body, even after only a one- second burst, to clean up
with a sponge.

 
          
Patrick
heard a clink of metal—the Gatling gun ammunition feed mechanism as the figure
adjusted his grip. He couldn’t see a trigger—the Vulcan cannon was normally
electrically operated—so he could not even guess when the gun would start
firing. It wouldn’t matter anyway—at this range, he’d probably be dead before
he heard the sound.

 
          
“Feels
good,” the figure said, his voice electronically distorted. In rapid
succession, he elevated the cannon straight up into the air, side to side, and
around in all directions. The movements were smooth, mechanical, effortless, as
if the one-thousand-pound cannon were little more than a wooden stick. He set
the big gun down on the floor, then unfastened some latches, removed his
helmet, and handed it to a technician standing nearby to help him. “I feel like
a damned clown miming on the street, but it works pretty well.”

 
          
Patrick
looked at Hal Briggs but said nothing. Hal was wearing the new and improved Tin
Man battle armor, and he looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying it.

 
          
The
first version of the electronic armor was designed to protect the wearer from
bullets or bombs—fast-moving blunt trauma or shock—but did nothing to enhance
strength. The new suit added a fibersteel exoskeleton structure with
microhydraulically operated joints at the shoulders, elbows, hips, knees, and
ankles, with stress supports on the hands, fingers, and feet. The suit’s
onboard computers read and analyzed all of the body’s normal muscle movements
and amplified them through the exoskeleton, giving the wearer unbelievable
physical strength, speed, and enhanced agility.

 
          
“Now,
let’s see if it fits in its convenient carrying case.” Hal entered a code into
a small panel on his left gauntlet, which powered down the exoskeleton and
released the bindings. The exoskeleton remained standing like some sort of
metal sculpture or futuristic scarecrow. He entered another code into a small
control panel inside the frame on the spine, and the exoskeleton started to
fold itself. In less than thirty seconds, it had collapsed down to the size and
weight of a small suitcase. Hal placed the folded exoskeleton into a padded
duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder—because of its composite construction,
it was light and easy to carry, although the fibersteel components were many
times stronger than steel. “Very cool. Every kid should have one.” Hal stepped
over to Patrick, the duffel bag slung on his back, and clasped his longtime
friend on the shoulder. “You okay, Muck?” he asked.

 
          
Patrick
shrugged. “It just feels like one of those days when you know something’s not
going to go right.”

 
          
“Well,
Wendy did a good job getting this thing tuned up,” Hal said, motioning to the
bag on his shoulder. “It’s very cool. I want to start putting it through its
paces right away, before Masters decides to invest production money on
something else.”

 
          
“That
may be sooner than you think,” they heard a voice say. The voice belonged to
Kevin Martindale. He was watching the demonstration from a comer of the test
chamber. The young, handsome, energetic former president stepped over and
greeted Patrick and Hal. Kevin Martin- dale, also a former vice president, had
stayed only one term in the White House. He was a strong military advocate, but
was voted out of office mostly because of actions he failed to take when the
United States
was threatened. What the public did not
know was that Martindale preferred to use secret, unconventional forces to
destroy an enemy’s ability to make war before the situation grew worse.

 
          
Now
Martindale was head of a secret organization called the Night Stalkers,
composed of former military men and women, who performed similar
unconventional-warfare missions around the world. But these operations were
neither ordered nor sanctioned by any government—Martindale and his senior
staff decided which missions to perform and how to perform them. In addition,
squeezing or outright stealing money, weapons, and equipment from their their
defeated opponents usually funded these operations.

 
          
“Very
impressive,” Martindale said, a fascinated gleam in his eye. These days, Kevin
Martindale wore his hair much longer than he did in his days in the White House
or Congress, and he had grown a goatee. He looked and acted quite a bit
differently than his more conservative, buttoned-down government persona:
Patrick hadn’t yet decided if he liked the new Kevin Martindale. “One of Jon
Masters’s new toys?”

           
“An old toy with some new tricks,”
Hal responded, handing the duffel bag over to Martindale.

 
          
He
was surprised at how lightweight it was. “That’s it? Everything but the armor
and backpack?”

 
          
“That
doubles the weight—still very transportable.”

           
“Excellent. We should talk to Jon
and see if he can make a few units available to the Night Stalkers.”

           
“I’m sure that can be arranged,”
Patrick assured him.

 
          
“With
the usual three-hundred-percent markup,” Hal chimed in with a broad smile as he
finished removing the Tin Man battle armor and stowing it in the duffel bag.

 
          
“Fine
with me—I’m not paying for it,” Martindale responded dryly.

 
          
The
comment bugged Patrick—it summarized all of Patrick’s misgivings about being
part of the Night Stalkers. Yes, they were doing important work—capturing
international drug dealers and criminals like Pavel Kazakov, the Russian oilman
and Russian Mafia chieftain, who had the incredible audacity to bribe generals
in the Russian army to invade and occupy Balkan states so he could build a
pipeline across those countries and make it more profitable for him to ship oil
to the West. They had captured Kazakov and dozens of other terrorists, drug
dealers, assassins, and international fugitives in less than a year.

 
          
But
no one in this group was independently wealthy. They had to do an old infantry
soldier’s trick taken a few steps further: raid the land as they marched across
it. Patrick himself had threatened Pavel Kazakov, one of the world’s most
wealthy but most dangerous individuals, with taking his life in exchange for
the tidy sum of half a billion dollars—he still made sure he was tossed into a
Turkish prison, but he also threatened to kill him instead if he didn’t pay up.
They had stolen guns, computer equipment and data, vehicles, aircraft, ships,
and hacked into hundreds of bank accounts of known international criminals to
raise money for their operations. The logic was simple: Not only did they
arrest the bad guys, but they also substantially reduced their ability to carry
on their criminal or terrorist enterprises.

 
          
Patrick
tried to tell himself that it was all for the common good—but those words kept
on ringing hollow.

 
          
“Good
to see you came through your ‘test flight’ over
Libya
all right,” Martindale said to Patrick as
they made their way out of the test lab. “But may I respectfully suggest you
just get Dr. Masters to schedule some range time with the Air Force or Army on
their ranges in
North
America
to shoot
down some missiles.”

           
“Unfortunately, we can’t blame that
one on him, sir,” Patrick admitted. “The test flight idea was mine. Jon wanted
to make a big splash to impress the Pentagon, and I picked the closest country
I thought would take a shot at us without starting World War Three. It turned
out to be one of the most successful test flights we’ve ever made in a Megafortress,
and certainly the most successful one for the Dragon airborne laser.”

 
          
“Not
too shabby for you either.”

 
          
“Sir?”

 
          
“I
suppose you haven’t heard—I heard it from very back-channel sources,”
Martindale said. “You know, of course, that President Thom has never chosen a
national security adviser.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir. He claims that the purpose of the President’s cabinet is to not only
administer the government but to advise the President,” Patrick said. “He
claims it’s the way our government was set up. He thinks bureaucrats like
national security advisers distort and politicize the decisionmaking process.”

 
          
“What
do you think of that?”

 
          
“I
think any leader, especially the leader of the free world in the twenty-first
century, needs all the advisers he can get,” Patrick replied. His eyes
narrowed, and he looked at Martindale carefully. “Why?”

 
          
“Because
your name was being bandied about as being on the President’s list for national
security adviser.” Patrick stopped and looked at Martindale in complete surprise.
“He’s putting together his reelection campaign, and the word is that folks
would be more comfortable with him in a second term if he had a more
identifiable, complete set of advisers—national security adviser being the
number-one pick. That, it appears, is
you”

 
          
“Me?
That’s insane!” Patrick retorted.

 
          
“Why
insane?” Martindale asked. “After you put together and then commanded that Air
National Guard EB-1C Vampire unit over United Korea, you’re one of the most
popular and well-known military guys out there. Some folks equate you with
Jimmy Doolittle putting together the
Tokyo
air raids in World War Two, or with Colin
Powell. The guys who have access can look at your record and just be amazed and
awestruck at the stuff you’ve done. Plus, you have one more advantage.”

 
          
“What’s
that?”

 
          
“You’re
not Brad Elliott,” Martindale said with a smile. “They look at what you and
your team did over
Russia
and
Romania
in the Kazakov incident, over
Korea
, over
China
, over
Lithuania
, and all the other secret missions you’ve
been involved in over the years, and they realize that you were fighting for
your people—that shows pride, determination, and tenacity. Brad Elliott didn’t
fight for his people—Brad Elliott gladly sacrificed his people to do whatever
he wanted. They know where you’re coming from. Thom likes that. I know you
disagree with Thom on military policy. ..

 
          
“
‘Disagree’? It goes way beyond ‘disagree,’ Mr. President! Thom was the one who
had me involuntarily retired from the Air Force! Thom ordered my wife and son
arrested by the FBI, and his Justice Department has got agents watching and
listening in on Sky Masters Inc. night and day. Thom and I have absolutely
nothing in common except loathing for each other.”

 
          
“In
case you haven’t noticed, Thom likes surrounding himself with advisers that
disagree with him,” Martindale said. “In fact, I can’t think of one person in
his entire administration that thinks like him or is even remotely sim- patico
with his throwback Jeffersonian ideology. Even his close friend Robert Goff and
he constantly butt heads.” “I’d work with Goff, Kercheval, or even Busick any
day,” Patrick said. “But there is no way in hell I’d ever serve under Thom.”