No answer.
He unlocked it with his key.
She wasn’t home.
Wyatt walked through the living room and peeked into the master bedroom. He checked the closets and found large gaps in the hanging clothes.
In the second bedroom, which she used primarily for storage, he found that her luggage was missing.
And that made him feel somewhat lonely.
Memorial
Seven
Ibrahim Ramad stood beside the podium at the head of the briefing room. The ventilation system was struggling with the haze of cigarette smoke that drifted near the ceiling. He could never figure out why pilots, who should strive to be in the best possible condition, smoked so much.
His bomber and interceptor wing commanders, along with their squadron commanders, were sprawled in desk-armed chairs around the room. To Ramad’s right, slightly out of the mainstream of air force officers, sat Ahmed al-Qati and army Major Khalil Shummari, the commander of the helicopter company which supported al-Qati’s airlift operations. The aviation company was composed of Mil Mi-8 troop transports carrying thirty-two soldiers, Mi-24 assault helicopters able to transport eight troops as well as deliver devastating firepower, and a squadron of Mi-28 attack helicopters utilized as escort ships.
Ramad waved a thick sheaf of paper at them, and the buzz of conversation dwindled away.
“The work that Lieutenant Colonel al-Qati and I have accomplished in the past ten days has come to fruition, brothers. These orders from the Leader, countersigned by Colonels Ghazi and Salmi, allow us to now test the theoretical.
“Colonel al-Qati, you are to move your special forces company to Marada for these trials, and Major Shummari will provide the tactical airlift.”
“How soon are we to begin?” al-Qati asked. He did not appear as excited about the prospects as Ramad thought he might have been.
“We will start as soon as possible. I would like to have your units in place by tomorrow night. Or is that too much to expect?”
Play on the man’s vanity.
“We will be here,” al-Qati said.
Khalil Shummari said, “Colonel, these exercises will utilize simulated ordnance?”
Ramad tapped the orders with his forefinger. “The first five in the series will be conducted with simulators, Major. Then there will be a grand finale utilizing live chemical agents.”
Al-Qati frowned. “It seems to me, Colonel Ramad, that a live exercise could lead to a large number of casualties among my infantry as well as Major Shummari’s helicopter crews.”
“Nonsense,” Ramad said. “Are you saying that your soldiers are unprepared for chemical warfare?”
“We regularly train in CW techniques,” al-Qati said, “and we are well-trained. However, in any large operation, it is prudent to expect mistakes to be made. We do not necessarily need to assume the risk — the certainty, in fact — of losing lives merely to impress higher authorities.”
“Ah, but it is not higher authorities we intend to impress,” Ramad said.
The briefing room fell silent as its occupants mulled over Ramad’s statement. He always enjoyed having that edge of surprise, of knowledge that others did not possess.
Captain Gamal Harisah, first squadron commander of the bomber wing, rose from his chair. He was a study in intensity: small, dark, sharply focused. He was also a fierce and fearless pilot.
“Colonel Ramad, are we to conduct these flights, these exercises, without regard to overhead surveillance?”
“That is correct, Captain. The satellites may watch what they will.”
“And that is the reason for the live exercise, is it not?”
“That is quite right, Captain Harisah. The Leader is now prepared for the world to know for certain that we control an arsenal of chemical weapons.”
It was, Ramad knew, a complete change in policy, and one for which he had pressed. Until now, the Leader had insisted to the world that the chemical plant constructed with German assistance was purely in support of agricultural aims. Ramad — and others, like Farouk Salmi — had argued that a chemical capability did little to deter aggression against them unless its existence was confirmed and the resolution to utilize it was proclaimed and demonstrated.
“The objective of this program,” he continued, “is not only to hone our skills, but to also make clear to the warhawks in America and Israel that forays against our homeland will have devastating results for the Israeli populace. No longer will we allow raids within our borders to take place without retaliation.”
One of those acts of aggression still stung him every time he thought about it. Ramad had been commander of the MiG-23 squadron that lost two aircraft to Sixth Fleet F-14 Tomcats over the Gulf of Sidra. The Leader had attempted to persuade the world that Libyan territorial rights extended in a straight line across the Gulf, rather than following the indented curvature of the coast. The Americans had successfully tested the proclamation, and the imaginary line, and the Leader’s resolve, along with Ramad’s pilots, were found wanting.
“No,” he continued, “it shall not happen again. Our tolerance levels finally have been achieved.”
Ahmed al-Qati smiled a ghostly smile at that statement. Ramad knew well that the man had lost his family to the Tripoli attack.
“The political objective of this exercise is to give the Israelis second thoughts about our will, our skill, and our resources. It is also intended to suggest to Washington that an American attack could well result in retaliation against Israeli targets.”
“We are certain,” al-Qati asked, “that a single live demonstration of CW weapons will achieve that end?”
“Absolutely,” Ramad assured him.
He could be confident of his assertion because Ramad, and in this room, only Ramad, knew how impressive the final demonstration would be. The lesson would be taught, and it was, after all, the will of Allah.
Bucky Barr was stripped to the waist, the sweat running through the thick hair on his chest and accumulating in the waistband of his khaki shorts, which were just about as wet as he was.
He was seated on the concrete floor of the hangar, next to the left main landing gear of three-six, hauling back on a three-quarter-inch-drive digital torque wrench. Lucas Littlefield was on his knees next to him, holding a combination wrench in place, to keep the bolt from turning as Barr tightened the nut down.
He tugged the torque wrench, and the nut reluctantly turned a quarter-turn.
“Goddamn,” Barr said, “you think we’re about there, Lucas?”
“Keep going.”
Barr reset the socket on the nut, then put his weight into the handle once again.
CLICK!
The torque wrench let him know he had reached 170 foot-pounds.
Barr sagged forward, slipped the socket from the nut, and dropped the wrench on the floor.
“Goddamn it!” Lucas yelped. “Don’t treat my tools that way, Bucky.”
Aeroconsultants had bought the tools, but Barr didn’t debate the point.
“Sorry, chief.”
He rolled onto his knees, then his feet, and crept out from under the wing.
All six F-4s were now in Hangar Four, three each staggered along each of the sidewalls, their twin canopies raised. The nose cones were also raised, revealing the mounts where the original radar scanners had been fixed. Each aircraft had its fully overhauled turbojet reinstalled, and Barr was proud of the new and sleek appearance. The lower fuselage and the underside of the wings and tail planes were finished in low-visibility grey. Topsides, the colour was that selected as the corporate colour of Noble Enterprises, a low-gloss cream. From the nose cone to the air intakes, dividing the cream and grey, a single, expanding red stripe had been taped in place. From the air intakes back along the fuselage, then swooping up the vertical stabilizer were twin red stripes. The N-numbers — all imaginary — and the Noble Enterprises logo were also red and were placed above the stripes on the fuselage sides.