Normally, Model thought, that would mean one of the Marines had an ingrown toenail, but his own reports spoke of three burned-out American tanks found on the scene of the action. His own people had reported there had been one hell of a firefight there. One of his small mobile columns appeared to have been wiped out. How was a bit unclear, the battle scene didn’t make sense. Call it a draw, Model thought, one mobile column for a Marine unit bloodied. As if it mattered now.
More talk, more chatter, more mindless bombast. The Satrap of Palestine, a short, plump man in green battle-dress fatigues and a black-and-white checked cloth on his head, had grabbed the limelight and was haranguing the Ruling Council. According to him, the American navy offshore had been smashed by the land-based missiles and fast attack craft. He spoke of ships exploding and sinking under the relentless attack, of the sea on tire with the destruction, of crew slaughtered to the last man, praying for salvation before their inevitable destruction. Model paused for a second there, did nobody think to ask how, if there were no survivors, anybody knew what the crews had done? The man was still ranting though
“To Washington, we are marching, martyrs by the million!” declared Yasser Arafat, as the Ruling Council roared its approval and chanted along with him.
Well, martyrs by the million they were certainly going to get. The newspapers, television and radio had all reported the bombers taking off from America hours earlier. The American press was crying out for vengeance against the people who had launched the attack on the American forces, the Northern Europeans were bewailing the impending end of the world. ‘Can’t we all just get along?’ was the plaintive headline in one newspaper, from Manchester of all places. The Southern Europeans were speculating that whatever the Americans did, it would take the threat that was pressing in from the cast further from them. The Russians were cheering the Americans on and publishing long lists of the atrocities committed by Caliphate-linked terrorists.
No matter what their position though on the events themselves, all the news was filled with doom and foreboding that was increasing as the American bombers swept across the Atlantic. They would have been half way over when this futile apology for a meeting had started and were now much, much closer. Three hours of mindless boasting and not once had the American ultimatum even been mentioned.
Model looked down at his copy of the American message. Couldn’t these fools read? It was written and constructed to be unacceptable, written to be refused. It was nothing more than a transparent excuse for the sledgehammer blow that was to fall on the Caliphate. He scanned the demands. A full public apology by the Caliphate for the attacks on American units. Payment of compensation for the shot-down bomber and also additional compensation paid to the crew for the hardship and distress they had suffered. More compensation for the Marines killed and injured last night, payment for the vehicles and equipment lost and fuel and ammunition expended. Beneath his impassive expression Model raised his eyebrows at the latter amount, the Americans had thrown how much ammunition at his little unit? Then yet more compensation, for the fighting around the ships, for the missiles used, for the bombs dropped and rockets fired, even for the fuel burned by the jets and ships.
Then there were the non-military provisions, a full admission of liability for the attacks on defenseless refugees and the cessation of all such acts. The establishment of a neutral zone around Gaza for refugees who wished to leave the Caliphate, a zone to be administered by the Red Cross and maintained until all the refugees had been transferred to countries wishing to receive them. An end to the destruction of antiquities and the establishment of another international zone around the Pyramids and Valley of the Kings. Any attacks by anybody on either international zone would be considered an act of war by the United States and treated accordingly,
It ended with a reiteration of the American “Open Skies” policy and stated quite bluntly that any further interference with Strategic Aerospace Command flights would result in a response involving all US national resources. It was a vicious, calculating ultimatum, one intended to cause an infuriated rejection. And the only alternative on offer, the American bombers, were already on their way. The only way to stop them was to accept the unacceptable. Yet, these fools who called themselves Satraps hadn’t even started to discuss it.
And they had to discuss it, they had to. Because, incredibly, unbelievably, this ultimatum offered him the one thing he had been looking for. For months he had racked his brains trying to think of a way out of this trap he was in, then the Americans had dropped it into his lap. All his people had to do was sit tight and the Americans would get them out for him. Model modified the thought, sit tight and remain un-incinerated. He could read a map as well as anybody. His people were right in the middle of the ring of bases that had launched the attacks precipitating this crisis.
If nothing else, the Americans would destroy those bases, just to show what would happen to anybody who attacked Americans. They wouldn’t, probably wouldn’t deliberately target his people but it didn’t make any difference. They would be collateral damage. The irony was overwhelming, after almost twenty years of trying to save his people, they would be wiped out by accident. Unless he could focus this meeting and persuade the Satraps to accept the American demands.
Cockpit F-108A Rapier “Wicked Stick”, 68,000 feet over the Eastern Mediterranean
“Bandits. We have Bandits.” Not Bogies, General Larry noted. Bogies were unidentified contacts, bandits were enemies. For this mission, for the Rapiers that were flying point, everything in front of them was an enemy. “Bandits are climbing fast on intercept course. Enemy count is twenty four in four groups of six. Tentative identification, tentative identification, Irene fighters.”
So much for the pre-raid intel of 16 fighters. No matter, this was one of those occasions when added enemies just made for a richer target environment. Larry ran the threat over in his mind, the Irene was a point defense interceptor, very high rate of climb but with limited fuel reserves, poor armament and worse radar. If the intel was right, these were dash-fours with a pair of 30 millimeter cannon and a pair of Tanto-kai air-to-air missiles -heavy but infra-red homing and limited in range. No matter, the inbound groups were in the tight formations that had become obsolete with the introduction of nuclear-tipped air-to-air missiles.
“Revised raid count, enemy force is now 32 fighters in eight groups of four.” That made sense, the old Luftwaffe Finger Four group. For a moment Larry pined for the old days when a pilot could see his wingman. Now, his wingman, Maybelline, was so far away that the aircraft was lost to sight, its translucent silver-blue finish lost in the glare of the sky. Even further out were the other pair of F-108s, Midnight Fantasy, and Black Velvet. Yet, visible or not, all four fighters were ready to concentrate a deadly volley of missiles onto the enemy fighters.
Larry felt the rotary launcher aft of his cockpit whirr as an AIM-47 was moved to the launching position. “Take them!” and his lighter lurched as the missile dropped clear. It was a weird sensation; the enemy fighters were still far below them yet the missile curved upwards, climbing for the thing air where resistance was less and its speed and range correspondingly greater. Then, at the fuel-optimum point, the missile turned over, its active radar guidance system snapped on and the AIM-47 started to dive on its selected formation.