“Take their photographs individually,” he said to the photographer.
“Then line them up along the wall in the same order they were in for the earlier photographs, along with the photographs they were holding, and take them as a group. When finished, have all the photographs developed immediately. I want several copies of each, and you will personally deliver them to me.”
“Aiwa, ya Modi,” the captain said.
Madi, the chosen one. Mohammed returned to earth — better than being the new Nasser. Just as Christians believed Christ would return someday, so Moslems believed that Mohammed reincarnated would return to restore Islamic greatness.
The colonel bowed his head. When he raised it, he smiled so that everyone saw the prominent gap between his two front teeth — a gap that the prophecies foretold as a sign of the chosen one. The last to assume the mantle of Madi had defeated and beheaded the great British General Gordon in the nineteenth century at Khartoum. Alqahiray had no intention of losing his head to anyone.
Several of the soldiers bowed. The cousin-captain bent and kissed the gold band on the colonel’s right hand.
“I will be in the operations room,” Colonel Alqahiray said. “Call the others, Major, and quietly assume control of this building. Let me know if anything happens.”
“Major?”
“Yes, Major. In the new Barbary Army, the loyal are righteously rewarded.”
The new cousin-major saluted as the colonel departed. The door shut behind the colonej, but not before the slow chant of
“Al Madi” reached his ears. Best thousand pounds he’d ever spent was in London at the dental clinic on Wigmore Street, having a dentist widen the natural gap in his upper teeth.
Five minutes later, the colonel strolled into the operations room.
Walid ran across to him. “Oh, Colonel, I am so glad you are here!”
“Walid, calm down. What possibly could have gone wrong in an hour?” the colonel asked as he continued to bask in the knowledge that now he was the absolute ruler of Libya, like his predecessor Qaddafi. The difference, though, was that he planned to rule a much larger empire — an empire that the world had not seen since the eleventh century; an empire that would influence every country in the world and give control of the Mediterranean to him.
“Sir, a battalion of Islamic Moroccan Army units have crossed the border into Cueta. They are fighting—”
“Cueta? What is a Cueta?”
“Cueta, sir, is the small Spanish colony on the Moroccan side near the Strait of Gibraltar.”
“Spain? Why in the hell would they want to do that? Our plans do not call for us to antagonize the Spanish.”
“Morocco has always claimed the city, much like Spain claimed Gibraltar. While Spain and Britain worked out a mutual agreement on Gibraltar, the Spanish have always refused to discuss the sovereignty issue of Cueta with Morocco. The Moroccans have always viewed Cueta as an issue of national honor.”
The success of Jihad Wahid depended on everyone doing what they were ordered to do. Events had to dovetail as planned. Cueta could jeopardize Jihad Wahid.
“Tell them to return to their soil. To leave Cueta immediately,” ordered the colonel, his voice rising.
“Yes, sir, I know, and we have contacted the leaders of the rebel commandos. They profess to have no control over this Moroccan military unit. The unit that has invaded Cueta is operating independently, but flying our banner.”
“What is Spain doing?”
“They have a small military garrison in the city and are fighting. Some of the reports indicate they may be winning the battle. If we are defeated by the small outnumbered Spanish —”
“We neither want to defeat the Spanish, nor do we want them to defeat us. Get me the leader we sent to Morocco to orchestrate this coup. Let me think, Walid.” After nearly a minute, the colonel said, “We have to get the Moroccans out of Cueta and we need them out now. You work on it, but by tomorrow they must be out!” When in doubt give the hard problems to a subordinate. They’ll either figure out something, or can be blamed for the failure.
He left Walid standing beside the C3 console, and went to his chair.
Innovative leaders whirled off on their own agenda too many times. That had been the reason for lack of unity in the Arab world for the past six hundred years. This was a critical time in the operation, and Cueta could ruin it all. He picked up the phone and dialed.
The soldier-photographer arrived two hours later and proudly presented a brown envelope with the photographs in it. The colonel looked through the expertly done photos, scrutinizing each one.
The soldier-photographer was still smiling when he departed an hour later, meritoriously promoted to master sergeant. What a great day to be an Arab! How great it was to serve the true Madi!
CHAPTER 5
“Noble Twenty-Two, tighten up your position on Wizard,” Noble Sixteen, the lead F-16 pilot, broadcast to his wingman.
Noble Sixteen was the call-sign for Howard “the Bird” Webster, twenty-six years old, lean, cocky, and already a captain in the United States Air Force. He hated Howard, but loved to be called
“The Bird.”
He was so called because of his thin craggy facial features and a nose that his flight training instructors swore reminded them of a “goddamn chicken beak.” He considered himself lucky they didn’t call him “Chicken.”
“Rooster” would have been all right, but
“The Bird” was best. If anyone ten years ago had told this son of a cotton-mill family that he would be a fighter pilot one day, he would have called him a liar. Sometimes he lay in bed in his two-bedroom bachelor apartment, or sat on the barbecue deck, smoking a stogie and pretending to be Will Smith in Independence Day, and amazed himself over how he’d gotten there. A poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks who’d lucked out on a math scholarship, followed by a commission in the world’s greatest Air Force. Someday he’d have to leave the Air Force and get a real job, as everyone joked.
The four United States Air Force F-16 fighters flew a tight tandem pair formation alongside the huge four-engine RC135. The Bird’s pair, high and tight, were on the left and in front, while the other two took a low rear and right position. Their primary mission: to provide immediate protection for the Air Force reconnaissance aircraft as it relieved the EP-3E on station seventy-five miles north of the survivors of the USS Gearing. Today, they would leave the RC-135 for a while and escort a Navy P-3C on a supply drop for the survivors. The Bird hated to fly protection for turboprops. Not because they weren’t jets, but because they were so slow he had to watch his console constantly to make sure the F-16 didn’t stall.
Since the sinking of the American warship and the surprise attacks against Sigonella and Souda Bay, the United States Air Force had been flying round-the-clock air-defense patrols out of Brindisi Airfield.
Dual purposes drove the defensive actions. One was to ensure the Libyans didn’t get froggy again and mount another attack; the other was to provide overhead protection for the survivors of the USS Gearing until rescue arrived.
“Noble Sixteen, this is Wizard One. Hunter Six Zero entering our zone in ten minutes.”
Hunter Six Zero was one of four P3C Orion maritime patrol and antisubmarine-warfare aircraft that had escaped the destruction at Sigonella. This one had been conducting a maritime patrol in the west Med when the attack occurred. Unarmed normally, the P3Cs were capable of carrying air-launched Tomahawk and Harpoon missiles. Unfortunately, the missiles were at Sigonella and the aircraft were operating out of Brindisi. It would be tomorrow before Harpoons arrived at the recently reopened airfield at Brindisi.