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Muhommad had been learning to fly, and had done thirty five hours over the previous two months, in a small Cessna 152.

Social structure is of paramount importance in the Arab culture and this slowed his flying progress. The flying instructor was not really permitted to critique Muhammad’s performance. But, nevertheless, he was smart and was a rapid learner.

At six feet two inches in height, Muhommad had felt extremely cramped in the small cockpit of the Cessna 152 training aircraft. Now, he felt much more at home in the larger, higher performance Piper Arrow he had been flying for the past couple of weeks. This was to be his graduation flight.

External checks were always part of the pre-flight routine and Muhommad went through these diligently. He used his flashlight to check all control surfaces and the engine oil levels. He pressed a small glass jar against the fuel drain valve to collect a small sample of gasoline to test for water contamination. He held the sample against his light. It was clear.

Now it was time to go to work inside the cockpit.

Like his father before him, Muhommad had studied electronics. Whilst his father had attended M.I.T. in Boston for five years, Muhommad went to the new university of the internet. He did as much research as he could for his next task, and there was no shortage of information available. He removed his flashlight and a screwdriver from his pocket and held the light in his mouth while he loosened four screws and swung down the avionics panel into his lap. Beside him on the seat was the circuit diagram he had printed out to help jog his memory. Twenty minutes was all it took before he had the reconfigured unit reassembled. He swung the unit back up and re-installed the screws. He said a silent prayer to Allah that the transponder modifications would be a success.

Muhommad switched on the ignition with the duplicate key he had stolen the previous day. Next, he moved the fuel mixture lever to rich, pushed the propeller pitch lever forward, pushed forward the throttle a little, then he engaged the starter and the Lycoming engine sputtered to life.

For the first and last time Muhommad did not bother with the engine run up and magneto checks. He wanted to make as little noise as possible.

Next, the brakes were released and a short taxi followed down the bumpy gravel airstrip. It was so dark outside that it was difficult to stay on the runway, but he did not want to chance using the lights. He had never flown at night, and this runway had no lights anyway, but he figured that takeoffs were much easier than landings anyway.

There was no wind that night, so he decided to take off away from the town, toward the desert to the west. When he was in position he set the directional gyro from the compass heading. Then he gave the engine full throttle and took his toes off the brake pedals and the plane slowly accelerated down the dark strip.

Muhommad was expecting vertigo on takeoff since he was certainly no instrument rated pilot. As soon as the wheels cleared the ground he steeled himself to just watch three of the primary instruments, artificial horizon, directional gyro and airspeed indicator. When he passed the end of the runway he flicked up the switch to retract the undercarriage.

Soon he was airborne and used the small wheel beside his right knee to trim for seventy five knots in a climb before he switched on the aircraft cabin lights and then dimmed them. He needed to consult his map so he would follow the set route he had plotted. It was important for outward appearances.

He left the standard port, starboard and strobe lights off for his short flight and leveled out at seven thousand feet. The airspeed indicator showed one hundred thirty five miles an hour.

Chapter 2

Guided Missile Cruiser USS Port Royal
Gulf of Arabia
October 11, 5am

The USS Port Royal, was a support ship for the Nimitz class aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan. Its job was to ensure the carrier, the most deadly vessel afloat was protected and safe at all times.

At ninety seven thousand tons and more than one thousand feet in length the Reagan was a monster. It carried the hull number CVN76. CV was the designation for aircraft carrier, N meant nuclear powered, and 76 was the production number.

The mammoth grey vessel carried the equivalent of a small town of people. On board was the full complement of ships crew of three thousand two hundred. These sailors were really just used for getting the ship safely to remote places. In addition there was a further crew of two thousand four hundred and eighty men who were needed to fly, operate and maintain the ninety fixed wing aircraft and helicopters onboard the USS Ronald Reagan.

To ensure the safety of the navy’s primary offensive assets, carriers are always surrounded by a smaller more nimble phalanx of defense craft.

There was a three mile exclusion zone around the aircraft carrier, and it was Port Royal’s mission to ensure no ships or aircraft violated that self administered safety net. Port Royal was stationed three miles west of Ronald Reagan. She was closer to shore, and only five miles off one of the busiest aircraft routes in the whole world.

Seaman Brian Peacock had dreamed of his job in the navy as long as he could remember. He had grown up in what seemed to him a fairly normal, mobile navy family. His first memories were of up state New York, and then San Diego California, his family happily following Uncle Sam’s postings. His dad was away for long periods, but his stories of navy life and the lure of adventure at sea were more than enough to ensure his enlistment as soon as his father would permit it.

Brian was twenty one years old and a missile technician. He was superbly trained and disciplined to follow orders without question. Just like naval aviators who follow a checklist prior to every takeoff, Brian knew every task required and his role in the ship’s safety. His watch had just started and he was able to do some study while on duty, as he was planning on moving to submarines as soon as he could pass the general submariner exam needed to qualify.

Vaughan Walters, was a school classmate of Brian at San Diego high school, but way too tall to ever consider submarine duty. He was raised by his mother, and became the proxy second son to the Peacock family. He loved Brian’s dad as he was sure he would love his own father if he had one, and he too joined the navy and was a radar operator on board the Port Royal.

An unworldly silence shrouded the radar room on this balmy weekday morning. The lights of the ship were the only thing that punctuated the pre-dawn blackness.

While Vaughan would have much rather finished his shift in the radar room now, he still had two hours to go. He dozed off quite regularly, but the ping of passing air traffic kept him just this side of comatose. Vaughan’s dreams took him to Singapore, where his next leave pass would allow him some time to troll the bars looking for young Asian ladies.

Something was just not right. Vaughan did not know what it was, but he was instantly awake, with that raised sense of awareness that comes from being stationed in a hostile environment. He was not yet aware that he would have nightmares about this day for the rest of his life.