Shakeeb nodded, his face revealing no change of expression.
The overhead fluorescent lights illuminated the spacious bunker. In the same revetment were two MiG-29 Fulcrums. In the adjoining bunkers were four other Fulcrums, as well as six attack-configured Dauphin turbine-powered helicopters.
In addition to the MiGs, the complex’s air defenses consisted of a SA-6 anti-aircraft missile battery on a self-propelled launcher, a dozen SA-16 shoulder-launched missiles, and a battery each of fifty-seven- and thirty-seven-millimeter antiaircraft guns. All Russian-built, purchased in the underground arms market of the third world.
His eight hundred Sherji — freedom fighters — were bivouacked outside the compound. Technically they were mercenaries, but most were veterans of the Afghanistan war and had been trained in Osama bin Laden’s Al Qaeda camps. Each possessed his own ingrained hatred for all non-Islamic adversaries.
Though Al-Fasr had no belief in a being more supreme than himself, he understood the power that Islam had over its faithful. The Sherji believed that if they died in battle, they would join Allah in the hereafter. Their willingness to become martyrs, as well as their skill in guerilla warfare, made them the most potent weapon in Al-Fasr’s arsenal.
His tiny air force was another matter. It was neither skilled nor potent. Despite that, it possessed an advantage of incalculable value: The Americans didn’t know they existed.
Or so his intelligence source assured him.
The arrival of the MiGs two weeks ago — flown in darkness across the Red Sea from Chad, where they had been delivered by the Libyan Air Force — was timed to avoid the scrutiny of the two American reconnaissance satellites that regularly spied on Yemen. The satellite-tracking technology was a purchase from China, stolen, Al-Fasr presumed, along with a plethora of secrets from the United States.
They walked outside the bunker to Shakeeb’s Land Rover. As they drove to the command post, Al-Fasr peered around the complex. It had been constructed back in the 1950s, when British Petroleum was still drilling the Arabian peninsula for oil deposits. Declaring Yemen to be a dry hole, they abandoned the complex, leaving behind the tin-roofed buildings and hard-packed road.
And the airstrip.
The old BP road meandered out of the desert, running in a nearly straight line for the last three kilometers to the compound. Though the road was gravelly and potholed, it was suitable for the sturdy MiG-29, which had been designed for the unimproved runways of Russia. For takeoff and landing, a door in each of the two big air intakes closed to prevent foreign object ingestion, while intake air was ducted through louvers on the top of the wing roots.
Seen from the lens of a satellite camera or a low-flying reconnaissance jet, the old road was nearly invisible. It looked like just another of the primitive camel paths worn into the arid earth of Yemen. It was a trick the Soviets had long used — building lengthy, straight sections of highway that could be instantly converted to tactical jet runways.
The Land Rover pulled up to the tin-roofed building that served as Al-Fasr’s headquarters. An array of antennae festooned the building. Inside, a dozen technicians worked at the rows of consoles, listening to encrypted message traffic, monitoring the movements of the U.S. Navy’s Middle East fleets.
The operator at the SatComm station looked up and saw Al-Fasr. “You have a message, Colonel. From the Reagan.”
“There’s the answer to my question,” said Claire, pointing to the land masses passing on either side of the Reagan. “Now we know where we’re going.”
“Not exactly,” said Maxwell. “But we know where we’renot going.”
They stood on the viewing deck behind the island, six stories above the flight deck. The heat of the afternoon sun was tempered by the twenty-knot breeze that whipped over the open deck.
the Reagan was leaving the Persian Gulf. To starboard, jutting into the sea like a spearhead, was the long, pointed tip of Oman. On the opposite shore lay the hazy brown coastline of Iran.
The entire battle group was steaming southeastward through the Strait of Hormuz. In the lead was a pair of destroyers followed by the Aegis cruiser Arkansas. Behind the cruiser sailed Reagan, flanked by a destroyer on either side and trailed by the amphibious helicopter carrier Saipan. The ammunition ship Baywater brought up the rear, in company with two more destroyers.
On the Saipan’s flight deck Maxwell could see a swarm of medium transport helos and Cobra gunships. The ship carried an entire Marine Expeditionary Unit — over a thousand battle-ready marines.
From the loudspeaker bellowed the voice of the Reagan’s air boss. “Stand by to recover CODs!” COD stood for Carrier Onboard Delivery. CODs ferried everything from personnel to airplane parts to toilet paper. “Recover CODs in five minutes!”
The bow was swinging into the wind. On the flight deck, yellow-shirted crewmen in float coats and cranial protectors scurried to clear the landing zone. The rescue helicopter lifted from the flight deck and wheeled out over the water, taking up its alert station.
The first of the two blunt-nosed turbo-prop C-2A Greyhounds was already in the groove. Maxwell watched the COD sweep over the ramp and settle with a plop onto the number three wire. Seconds later, the twin-engined aircraft was clear of the wire and scuttling to the forward flight deck. The second COD arrived, snagging a two wire, then joined the first one on the forward deck. The howling of the turbine engines came to a stop.
Maxwell saw the clamshell doors open in the aft fuselage of each COD. At the same time a party of officers came out of the island onto the flight deck. He recognized one of them, a tall man in khakis. It was Sticks Stickney, captain of the Reagan.
Over the loudspeaker blared the bosun’s pipe. Following naval custom, the bosun’s mate’s voice announced, “Commander, Task Force Eleven — arriving.” Another screech of the whistle, then, “Deputy National Security Adviser — arriving.”
A civilian wearing starched khakis and aviator sunglasses emerged from the COD. He was followed by an officer with two stars. Captain Stickney rendered a stiff salute, which both men returned.
“Good Lord,” said Claire. “Who’s that?”
“The new Battle Group Commander. Admiral Langhorne Fletcher.”
“Who’s the civilian? The one dressed up like MacArthur that they’re all kowtowing to?”
“You’re looking at the honorable Whitney T. Babcock, confidant and adviser to the President. Remember him?”
Claire nodded. “Uh-oh. Watch out, Sam.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Boyce sat alone in the conference room. Spook Morse had removed the image of Jamal Al-Fasr. Now a map of Yemen covered the screen.
Here we go again, thought Boyce. Within a few hours his strike fighters would be on their way to another target in yet another godforsaken hostile country. There was no end to it. The world was crazy. Instead of a single, monolithic kick-ass opponent like the Soviet Union, now they had an enemy du jour. Little pissant wars were breaking out like anthills in a pasture.
Boyce had already ordered a practice load-out. On the hangar and flight decks, the ordnance divisions of the air wing’s squadrons were scrambling to hang weapons — thousand- and two-thousand-pound bombs — beneath the wings of the Hornet strike fighters. Chief petty officers were yelling at the red shirts, hacking stop watches, exhorting them to move faster.