They had scrambled defence fighters out of Tripoli and Benghazi, but from what al-Qati was hearing on the radio, those defensive forces were gathering along the coast and moving toward the Egyptian border. The three companies of his battalion left at El Bardi had also been alerted.
The Leader was expecting additional attacks from the Israelis, he supposed. That was a knee-jerk reaction and was an action al-Qati did not believe would occur. Not unless it was Israelis who were behind the attack on Marada Air Base.
That was possible.
But unlikely, given his suspicions of Sophia. He knew she spoke Italian fluently, as well as English. She was about his equal in French, which was rudimentary. Her Arabic was spartan, and the two of them had usually conversed in English. She might well speak Hebrew, but somehow, he doubted it.
He wished he could step outside of himself, outside of his body, and kick himself.
He would kick himself right in the testicles, which were what had led him to be so asinine.
But he had loved her.
Had?
He still loved her.
And she had used him.
He had used her also, to attempt to prevent the senseless attack in Ethiopia.
He had succeeded brilliantly.
So brilliantly that his nation had lost a staggering amount of her military resources and personnel. He was chagrined to think of the many that had died at the base and at the chemical plant.
His countrymen.
He knew, of course, that in war one must expect that any given situation would be infinitely worse than anticipated. But the miscalculations that had occurred this morning were inexcusable.
He could lay the blame for inadequate defence at Ramad’s door, but he could not place it all there. He should have admitted to Ghazi his involvement with the spy and accepted the death sentence he would have received.
He had not. And he would not.
All he could do was what he could do.
Fortunately, they had not heard from Ibrahim Ramad for some time.
“Where are we now?” he asked the pilot.
Al-Qati no longer held his pistol to the man’s head. The pilot and his crew appeared to have accepted their lot, especially after additional news of the attack on Marada Air Base had been disseminated.
“It is difficult, with our limited radar, Colonel. On dead reckoning, I believe we are some three hundred kilometres from where we estimated the AWACS aircraft to be. And remember, that was based on information we overheard from Marada Air Control. I suspect that the AWACS has left the region.”
“How soon until we are in radar range?”
“Perhaps another half hour, Colonel.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
Instead of threatening the co-pilot with a pistol he reached for the selector on the bulkhead next to him and switched from the intercom to the secondary tactical channel. The first channel was jumbled with orders and counter-orders emanating from Tripoli. Among the government and the military bureaus, chaos reigned. “Moonglow, Sundown.”
“Proceed, Sundown.”
“What is your status?”
“Quite relaxed,” Shummari reported. “The errors of many ways have been seen.”
“And your helicopter crews?”
“We can be off the transports and airborne within fifteen minutes. The assistance of your soldiers would probably improve that time.”
“Very good. You may expect assistance.”
Al-Qati still did not know what he would find when they got to where they were going.
He could only hope that the intruders were utilizing a staging base which he could cut off.
After what had taken place at Marada, the raiders deserved to be slaughtered, and given the chance his duty was to slaughter them.
Barr heard Wyatt’s voice for the first time in fifteen minutes.
“Let me have a status check,” Wyatt said.
All of the planes read off their fuel states. Except for the Hercules, none of the numbers were encouraging.
“Positions?” Wyatt asked.
“Four’s alongside Wizard,” Gettman replied.
“And Two’s got both of them in sight,” Barr said. He had had the bright skin of the C-130 visually for several minutes. He estimated that he was six or seven miles behind them. “We’re a bit more interested in you, Andy.”
“I’m down to under two hundred knots and fifteen hundred feet of ground clearance. I’m sending Norm on now.”
“The hell you are,” Hackley said.
“You know the course I’m on. Scoot!”
“Shit. Roger.”
“Jim,” Barr asked. “What have you got for terrain?” “Not too bad, Bucky. I saw a flat spot a couple of miles back. I can’t tell how soft it is.”
“Well, we’re sure as hell not going to make it back to Chad. You circle the wagons where you are, and I’ll tell you how soft it is. Andy?”
“Your call,” Wyatt said. “You’re the lowest on fuel.”
“Let me,” Gettman said. “I lied. I’ve got the short straw on fuel.”
“You’ve also got a passenger,” Barr said.
“Nelson,” Formsby said “why don’t you simply punch out? You could test the surface with your feet.” “I get airsick in a parachute,” Barr said.
“I understand. I happen to feel the same way myself.”
Ahead of him, he saw the transport enter into a circular pattern. A few seconds later, as he closed up on them, he saw Gettman’s Phantom tucked in tight with the transport. They stayed at around seven thousand feet as Barr began to drain off speed and altitude.
“Two, Wizard Three.”
“Come on, Sam.”
“You’ll want to take it left five degrees.”
“Going.”
After several seconds on that course, Vrdla said, “Now, Two, come to one-nine-eight.”
Barr banked into the new heading, still letting down.
When he was at fifteen hundred feet AGL, Vrdla said, “That’s it.”
Barr surveyed the surface of the ground as he swept across it at 250 knots.
“Jesus, Jim! You think that’s flat?”
“I wanted to use the dune on the west as a launch ramp,” Demion said.
“You’ve got any number of dunes to choose from,” Barr told him.
The landscape, like most all of the landscape he had seen in the last couple of days, was barren and desolate. It undulated here by several feet along a two-mile stretch. If he stopped to count, he might be able to calculate a half-dozen scrubby bushes along the whole length.
What was more important, however, the surface didn’t appear to have a totally sand composition. It seemed to be composed of crusted earth, and his job was to see how hard the lack of moisture and the heat of the sun had made the crust.
He circled back to the east.
“What do you think, Nelson?”
“Absolutely worth a try.”
He took the Phantom five miles east, then turned back to the west, deploying his flaps. With his missing wingtip, he wasn’t going to have leading edge slats for increased lift, and his landing speed would be a trifle higher than he liked.
Maybe he wouldn’t get airsick in a parachute this time?
“Nah.”
“What did you say, Bucky?” Demion asked.
“I yawned, Jim. This is a yawner.”
Demion’s flat spot was about a quarter-mile wide, bounded on the north and south by dunes that were higher than the average dune. He selected the right side of the area. If he screwed it up, he wanted the others to have room to get down.
He debated bellying it in. It would be preferable as far as he was concerned, but it wouldn’t tell the others anything about the surface’s ability to support tires.
Punching the landing gear switch, he saw three green lights.