The turbine engine of the helicopter labored as they ascended the barren ridge. At the summit, fifteen hundred meters above sea level, they had a view that extended a hundred kilometers into the sprawling desert plateau of Yemen. To the left, far below, the rocky salient of the Arabian peninsula jutted into the sea.
Out in the Gulf, an object caught his eye.
Thirty miles distant. There was no mistaking the distinctive gray flat-topped silhouette.
An aircraft carrier.
In a flash, it came to him. The helicopters, the marines, the Hornet fighters. He knew where they had come from.
He stared at the great death ship on the horizon. He thought of his father, beheaded for no reason except that his son was the Emir’s enemy. His mother and sister, slaughtered like cattle.
A hatred more profound than anything he had ever felt took possession of Jamal Al-Fasr. He gazed at the ghostly form of the warship. In a voice too low to be heard over the thrum of the helicopter, he said, “I promise, Father. I will kill them.”
CHAPTER TWO
INCIDENT IN DUBAI
Incoming fighters.
Josh Dunn looked up from the flight deck and saw them — sleek gray shapes, low on the water, almost invisible in the morning haze. He could make out the long pointed noses, the missiles mounted on each stubby wing tip. They were aimed directly at the carrier’s six-story island superstructure.
Dunn said nothing.
He kept his eyes on the fighters as they flashed across the harbor. The sun glinted from their wings. As the jets approached, the combined thunder of their engines rolled over the water, gathering momentum like a summer storm.
The timing was perfect. As the four F/A-18 Super Hornets swept down the length of the flight deck, the band swung into a spirited rendition of “Anchors Aweigh.” Every head in the crowd, even the assembled air wing officers standing at parade rest, turned to follow the low-flying formation.
Vice Adm. Joshua Chamberlain Dunn nodded in approval. In his long career, he had endured dozens of these change-of-command ceremonies, including several of his own. This one was special. The young Navy commander standing at the podium in his service dress white uniform, though not Dunn’s own son, might as well have been.
Prior to the official change of command, it had been his honor to pin on Sam Maxwell — Dunn had never gotten used to his Navy call sign, “Brick” — the Distinguished Flying Cross. In a coordinated air strike against targets in Iraq, Maxwell was credited with destroying a major weapons assembly plant at Latifiyah. On the same mission he shot down a MiG-29 flown by a legendary Iraqi squadron commander.
Now Commander Maxwell was taking command of a strike fighter squadron, the VFA-36 Roadrunners, based aboard USS Ronald Reagan. The ceremony was brief, deliberately so because the outgoing skipper, Cmdr. John “Killer” DeLancey, was absent. DeLancey was listed as killed in action during the same strike over Iraq.
A crowd of nearly two hundred occupied seats on the flight deck, facing the podium. On a raised dais were the guests of honor — Vice Admiral Dunn, Rear Adm. Tom Mellon, who commanded the Reagan battle group, and the ambassador to the United Arab Emirates, an ebullient Californian named Wayne Halaby.
Maxwell took the podium and greeted the guests. Out of respect for the deceased former commanding officer, he omitted the customary speech new skippers usually delivered. In keeping with naval tradition, he read the orders giving him command of Strike Fighter Squadron Thirty-six. Then he turned to the Reagan’s Air Wing Commander, Capt. Red Boyce. “Sir, I am ready to assume command.”
He and Boyce exchanged salutes. The officers then turned to the two admirals, Dunn and Mellon, who stood at the edge of the dais. Again they saluted, and the admirals returned the gesture.
The ritual was complete.
A cluster of officers and guests gathered around the new squadron skipper, shaking his hand and clapping his shoulder. Josh Dunn watched from the edge of the group, thinking again how proud he had always been of young Maxwell. He had always been a good-looking kid, Dunn remembered, but now that he was nearly forty, he had a more mature look — that dark mustache, tall, rangy build, piercing blue eyes. He was the kind of son Harlan Maxwell ought to be immensely proud of — if he had any sense.
Dunn walked over to Maxwell and clasped the younger man’s hand. “You’re going to be a great skipper, Sam.”
“I’m flattered that you came, Admiral.” That was the protocol between them. In public, it was Admiral. In private, he had always been Josh.
“Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away,” said Dunn. “I just wish your old man were here to see this.”
Maxwell nodded. “He could have been.”
“You two have got to patch this up.”
“Maybe someday. We don’t seem to be ready for that yet.”
Dunn shook his head. Adm. Harlan Maxwell was his best friend, academy classmate, and naval colleague of nearly forty years. He was also a pigheaded fool, thought Dunn.
He didn’t even remember the exact cause of the rift between the elder Maxwell and his son, and he doubted that they did either. It was one of many such clashes the father and son had had over the years. They were two bulls in a pasture. For some reason, they couldn’t acknowledge the underlying love and respect each had for the other.
Dunn reminded himself to talk to Sam about that.
“How about joining us for lunch in Dubai?” said Dunn. “The ambassador and Admiral Mellon and I are going to the Carlton.”
Maxwell nodded across the deck to where a tall, chestnut-haired girl stood watching them. She was wearing a summer dress, a silk scarf at her throat. With the breeze ruffling the light dress, Dunn could see that she had a smashing figure.
She saw him and smiled.
“Thanks, Admiral, but I promised the lady I’d spend the day with her. We have some catching up to do.”
Dunn grinned. So that was the girl he had heard about. Claire Phillips. She was a network television reporter assigned in the Middle East. According to the scuttlebutt, she and Maxwell were on their way to being an item.
“You’re released on one condition.” He took Maxwell by the arm and steered him across the deck. “You have to introduce me to the lady.”
Hassan Fayez and Yousef Mudrun watched in astonishment as the four jet fighters swooped over them. For a terrifying instant, Hassan thought that the warplanes were coming for them.
Not until the jets were gone did he realize that it must be some sort of demonstration. Another American show of power.
The two men looked like any of the hundreds of boat people afloat that morning. Their ancient lateen-rigged dhow, with its large triangular sail, drifted in the outer harbor. To all appearances, the two sailors were fishing or perhaps diving on one of the sunken wrecks at the bottom of the channel.
Through his binoculars, Hassan studied the great gray mass of the American ship three kilometers in the distance. They were close enough. He had been told the American Navy maintained a screen of surveillance boats around their flagship. He was sure, too, that they deployed sensors and weapons to discourage underwater intruders. It would not be easy to attack the Reagan, even though the vessel lay at anchor.
Looking at the immense size of the aircraft carrier, noting the array of guns and missiles and the massive deck filled with warplanes, Hassan felt a wave of fear pass through him. Why had he volunteered for this mission? The answer came to him immediately. He hadn’t. The Leader himself had given him this assignment. There was no alternative. To refuse the Leader’s order meant an abrupt departure from this life.