But he still thought his strategy would work against the MiGs, and that would be their salvation. Zimmerman’s F-4C and Jordan’s F-4D were expendable and would remain that way.
He rolled over onto his side and pillowed his head on his forearm.
On the faraway horizon, in the stars, he saw Jan’s face.
He was glad he had been forced into finally admitting his love to her. He had known it for some time, of course, but he had had as much difficulty making the realization known to himself as he had had in making it known to her.
If he had a regret, it was that this mission interfered with his emotional awakening. It didn’t help him, and it certainly wouldn’t help her if his Phantom went out from under him. He hated raising false hopes for her.
He had almost closed his eyes when a bulky shadow crawled across the sand toward him.
“Andy, you asleep?”
He whispered back, “Wouldn’t it be better to ask if I were awake, Bucky?”
“Same coin,” Barr said, scooting around to sit back on his broad buttocks. “Got a question for you.”
“Is it answerable?”
“Maybe not.”
“Shoot.”
“I’ve been worrying about Kramer.”
“Don’t. Worry about Ibrahim Ramad.”
“Go to hell. I know what her problem is.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. I think you’re screwing her over.”
“Why is that, Bucky?”
“I mean, everybody knows you two have a thing for each other.”
“Do they?”
“No secrets around our place. Now, goddamn it, I want you to treat her right. Either marry her or break it off.”
“I haven’t heard your question yet, Bucky.”
“You going to do what I say?”
“You want to be best man?”
Barr pored over that one for a full second. “Good night, Andy.”
“Night, Bucky.”
Despite his scepticism over the rumour of some silly effort to interfere with his plans by antiquated fighter aircraft, the report had chaffed at Ibrahim Ramad all day long.
He conceded to himself that it was possible.
His proposal had been making the rounds of the military and political hierarchy for three months. Someone may have slipped, a loosened tongue dropping hints that analysts loved to manipulate and decode. Perhaps a People’s Bureau minister in some foreign city. He did not know all of those to whom the Leader may have confided the plan.
It was possible.
He sat in his office most of the evening, worrying about the possibility and the possible outcomes if it were true. It did not matter who the opposition was. If they knew the date and time, and if he were them, he would certainly attack before Ramad’s aircraft took to the air.
That meant tomorrow.
Early in the morning, he would place the interceptors on twenty-four hour alert.
Or, if they knew the time, and he were them, he would attack while the bombers were on the ground, out of the hardened hangars.
Six F-4s?
His pilots would down six F-4s in a matter of minutes. What was he worried about?
He would order his personal MiG-23 prepared, and he would lead the counterattack. It could not hurt his career aspirations.
But what if one of the attackers got through and destroyed an Su-24 on the ground, detonating chemical warheads? The gas would permeate Marada Air Base, sucked into the ventilators. He would be remembered, not for developing a successful strategy and forcing the Israelis to cower in their comer of the world, but for his culpability in the deaths of Libyan airmen and base personnel.
Allow this thought: some clandestine fighter-bombers would attack Marada Air Base between, say, four o’clock in the morning and eight o’clock on the morning of August 2.
It could happen.
It might not happen.
But even the possibility could be circumvented.
Ramad smiled to himself.
Then called the sergeant at the duty desk. “I want all wing and squadron commanders in the briefing room immediately. Notify Colonel Ghazi of the meeting. Send a truck to the encampment for Colonel al-Qati and Major Shummari.”
He made some other calls.
It was eleven-twenty at night before they were all assembled in the briefing room next to his office.
Ramad stood at the podium and smiled.
“I have put my mind to the problem raised by Colonel Ghazi, and I have determined the solution.”
Some of his subordinates smiled their appreciation. Ghazi and al-Qati waited stoically.
“This base is now on full-alert. I have ordered tanker aircraft from Tripoli. We will put the first defensive cover squadron into the air within the horn. Given the possibility of information leaks, I have shut down the telephone system. No phone calls may be made from here, or accepted from elsewhere, for the next forty-eight hours.
“Test Strike is moved up one day. We will launch the C-130s with Colonel al-Qati’s company and Major Shummari’s helicopters at precisely,” — he glanced at his watch — “four-twenty-seven. The bombers will depart at five-forty.
“I would advise all commanders to leave here now and prepare your units.
“Are there any questions?”
There were quite a few.
Martin Church accepted the call on his secure line. It was the DCI.
“Martin, I’m afraid I have bad news.”
“What is that, sir?”
“We just don’t have enough to go on, and I can’t convince the right people. Icarus is cancelled.”
“But, sir…”
“Get hold of your team and turn them back.”
Fourteen
George Embry’s office was not as large as Church’s, and it was made even smaller by the dominant, double-sized poster of Madonna in a classic Marilyn Monroe pose on one wall.
“Jesus, George. Why did you put that up there?”
“To remind me of the love of my life.”
“Not Madonna?”
“No, Marty. Women.”
Church skirted the corner of the square conference table, which had been shoved against the wall opposite Madonna, and sat in a chair next to Embry.
“Welcome to the high-tech African desk, Marty.”
“I see.”
There were two high-resolution monitors on the table, along with a blue telephone and a green telephone.
“I want you to understand that this stuff isn’t in my budget, Marty. I cajoled them out of the NSA’s rent-to-own program.”
“We could have just driven out to Fort Meade.”
The National Security Agency, which was responsible for the monitoring and interception of electronic communications, was located at Fort George G. Meade, Maryland. It was the largest agency in the intelligence community, and, though it was an agency of the Department of Defence, worked closely with the CIA on the development of foreign intelligence.
“I’ve got other irons in the fire, too, Marty. I don’t want to sit around out there for two days. Look, the blue phone is a direct link to NSA, so Cummings can reach me.”
Marianne Cummings had a tiny transceiver concealed somewhere in her hotel room. It had a range of only a mile but a relay and satellite up-link was emplaced in one of Tobruk’s derelict buildings within that range.
“The green phone is hooked into the Air Force’s CRITICOM satellite communications system, which we’re borrowing for our link with Wyatt.” He pointed to a blank monitor. “That one is decorative, I think. They tell me I can get maps and the like if I ask for them, but I haven’t asked. The other monitor is giving us a live, near real-time shot of the region from a KH-11 they’ve moved into geo-stationary orbit.”