Claire. Though it was still too soon to trust his own feelings in these matters, he knew that he felt the stirrings of something very much like love. If his own instincts were correct, he was sure that she felt the same way.
Morse was pointing to a spot on the map. It was in the northwestern part of Yemen. “We don’t have an op plan yet. Our guys nailed three of the operatives in the terrorist group, and they’ve provided enough intel data to give us a good ID of the group. They’re exiles from a failed coup attempt in Abu Dhayed three years ago.
“We have good recon and intel data about the group’s headquarters. They’ve got a few high-tech weapons, including some SA missiles appropriated from their own military in Abu Dhayed. We assume, too, that they’ve got some high tech communications and a certain level of intelligence-gathering capability, because the guy who runs the outfit has plenty of assets and a military education.”
A lieutenant commander from the Bluetails spoke up. “Is this bunch connected with Al-Qaeda and Osama bin Laden’s gang?”
“Yes, they’re connected. But they’re not part of the Islamic jihad movement. The leader of this group has a different agenda.”
With this, he switched the picture on the screen. The portrait of a handsome Arab man in a military flight suit flashed into view. He had a neat black mustache. On his flight suit was embroidered a set of silver wings, and beneath his collar he wore a checkered scarf.
Maxwell felt a shock of recognition. That face. From somewhere back in time. He stared at the image, scratching his memory. Where? What was his name…?
Morse supplied the answer. “Gentlemen, meet Col. Jamal Al-Fasr.”
“I know him,” said Maxwell.
Morse stopped. “Excuse me?”
“From the Red Flag exercise,” said Maxwell. It was coming back to him now. “At Nellis about ten years ago. He was an F-16 pilot from one of the emirate air forces.”
Morse was nodding his head. “That’s correct. I was there too, and met this guy. The fact is, he was an impressive character. He’d gone through flight training with the U.S. Air Force. He did the fighter weapons course at Nellis, then came back with his home team to compete at Red Flag.”
Maxwell stared at the face on the screen. Yes, it was definitely Al-Fasr. He was hard to forget.
Boyce turned around in his seat. “Was the guy any good?”
“The best they had. Very aggressive, but he had a problem. He broke the rules. He’d violate the hard deck altitude, take shots outside the box, whatever it took to win engagements. One day in a one-vee-one, he took it all the way down to the deck and scraped one of our guys off on a ridge in the Sierra.”
“I remember that incident,” said Boyce. “They kicked the sonofabitch out of the country and sent him back to the emirate.”
“That’s Al-Fasr,” said Morse.
Boyce peered at the smiling face on the screen. “Spook, you’re telling us that’s the terrorist who took out Admiral Mellon and Admiral Dunn and the ambassador?”
“We have evidence that he planned it and gave the order.”
“When do I get the chance to put a Sidewinder up his ass?”
“Not soon. According to the intel on this guy, he doesn’t have any tactical aircraft. Certainly no fighters. You’ll have to settle for a laser-guided bomb on his hooch in Yemen.”
A strike leader from VFA-34 spoke up. “Does that mean we’re launching a strike?”
“The new Battle Group Commander’s on his way out, along with some honcho from the National Security Council. We’ll know in a few hours.”
The room became quiet, each pilot thinking about a possible air strike. From the projection screen, the face of Jamal Al-Fasr smiled down at them.
The high desert landscape looked like the surface of an asteroid. The entire valley was barren except for the terraced fields on the hillside where peasants tended a few scraggly sheep and tried to raise miserable crops of sorghum and millet.
Al-Fasr kept the Marchetti SF260 in a steep turn while he peered down at the target area. It would have been expedient to perform the mission with a MiG-29, he reflected. As a ground-attack platform, the MiG was a terrifying vehicle. But today’s mission was special. He didn’t want the speed and devastating firepower of the big Russian-built fighter.
The single machine gun of the Marchetti, mounted in a pod beneath the left wing, and the relative slowness of the aircraft — only 350 kilometers per hour in its dive — were suitable for his purpose. Al-Fasr wanted the luxury of time. He needed to observe his target at close range.
He flipped the master armament switch to ON. The target was below his left wing. He shoved the throttle to full power and rolled the Marchetti nearly inverted, pulling the nose through the horizon.
The targets appeared in his windscreen. In the rock-strewn clearing they looked like stick figures, pitiful caricatures of human beings. Al-Fasr almost wished he had armed them with automatic weapons. It would be more sporting if they could shoot back.
No, he thought. It was better this way.
He felt the airframe hum and resonate as the propeller-driven fighter-trainer gathered speed. He liked the agile little Marchetti. This particular example had been acquired from the Libyan Air Force, where it had flown in Khadafi’s Sudan and Chad campaigns.
Through the fixed gunsight on the glare shield, he studied the six targets. They knew what was happening, and they were trying to conceal themselves behind each other. Like rats hiding from a marauding cat.
Each wore green fatigues except for one, who was dressed in a white, shirtlike gellebiah. Each was tethered to a mast by a four-meter chain.
At a range of three hundred meters, he squeezed the trigger. The vibration of the pod-mounted machine gun rattled through the Marchetti’s airframe all the way to the control stick in Al-Fasr’s right hand.
He saw the tracers kicking up dirt three meters short of the tethered prisoners. His aim point was slightly low. The prisoners scattered, running to the end of their tethers like chained dogs.
Using the tracers like the tip of a brush, Al-Fasr walked the fusillade of bullets to the left, where two of the prisoners had scurried.
Machine-gun fire tore through their bodies. The figures rolled and flipped across the dirt, arms and legs splayed.
Al-Fasr released the trigger and pulled up in a high chandelle over the target site. Looking back over his right shoulder, he saw the bodies of the two executed prisoners spread-eagled on the ground. The remaining four stared up at him.
It was appropriate. Condemned prisoners should serve a useful function, he believed. Like strafing practice. No one should be surprised.
Least of all Naguib Shauqi.
His faithful lieutenant. His fellow freedom fighter and commander of the Bu Hasa brigade. Maj. Naguib Shauqi and his armor could have saved Akhmed when he was besieged by the Royal Guard.
It was Naguib, he finally determined, who had betrayed the coup.
As he identified each of the traitors, he had dealt with them. Twelve of Naguib’s collaborators had been assassinated. Another half dozen — all military officers and close associates of Naguib — were taken from their homes or offices. Naguib was snatched from the sauna in his villa where he had been found with his German mistress. After being forced to watch while the woman’s throat was slashed, he was bound and gagged, then transported to Yemen.
To become a target.
Another firing pass. The prisoners darted back and forth, trying to anticipate the bullets. Naguib, conspicuous in his white garb, tried to conceal himself behind the others.