Phoenix Sub Zero

As the water rose in the tunnel, Ahmed felt the broken concrete tunnel begin to shift, the water undermining footing in the packed sand. He continued to blow into Sihoud’s mouth. The water continued to rise. How long could he try to bring life back to Sihoud before giving up and trying to save himself? But then he thought that no decision was in fact a decision. Without Sihoud there was no hope for the UIF or for Ahmed himself, and with the war lost, Sihoud and Ahmed’s family dead, what was there to live for?

Sihoud suddenly stiffened and expelled water.

* * *

It was well past three o’clock in the morning and something was seriously wrong. Airman Abdul Djaliz squinted at the horizon where the smoke and flames were dying out but still discernible over the dim light of the few sodium arc lights illuminating the asphalt at Ashkhabad’s Sunni Air Base.

It had been perhaps forty minutes before that the call had come from the main bunker HQ to pull the most airworthy Firestar fighter from the hangar, warm it up, and load liquid helium into the electronic warfare pod’s tank. That had taken only fifteen minutes. The sleek swept-winged jet sat on the pad, her turbines purring smoothly, the heat haze from the exhaust nozzles causing the strip lights to waver slightly.

The canopy was up and the ladder was pulled up to the cockpit. For the fifth time in a half hour Djaliz climbed to the top of the ladder and peered in at the pilot’s status console, goosing the computer through its fifth checklist. The liquid crystal display recited the aircraft’s latest statistics, flashing graphics and charts and temperature profiles, oil pressures, hydraulic system status. All of it within limits.

Djaliz lowered himself back down to the ground and reexamined the electronic warfare pod slung under the pointed nose of the large jet, the one he’d filled with supercold liquid helium. The ungainly size of the pod marred the sleek streamlined beauty of the aircraft. The pod was new with the latest modification of the Firestar, this particular pod nearly fresh out of the crate from Osaka. Djaliz worried over it for a moment and climbed the ladder again and this time climbed all the way into the cockpit, putting the pilot’s flight helmet aside on the engine control console. He dialed up the menu for the electronic warfare pod and ordered a self-check.

He waited a moment while the computer tested the inputs and readbacks from the pod and tested the circuits to the large transmitters housed inside. The display recited that the pod was ready for combat, ready to fry the electronics of any approaching aircraft that challenged this particular. Firestar in a dogfight. Djaliz checked the time, wondering if he should radio back to headquarters that he was wasting the jet fuel, that no one had shown up for whatever mysterious mission HQ had had in mind.

The young airman stood and climbed out of the cockpit, his jaw dropping as the speeding U-10 crashed through the security gate without bothering to scan in. He dropped to the ground and unholstered his pistol, about to command the intruder to halt. The truck drew up to the jet, parking off the side of the starboard wingtip, as if the driver wanted to avoid blocking the jet’s takeoff. Djaliz leveled his automatic pistol at the driver, who seemed unconcerned with him. He called out to the man, who opened his door and walked around to the front of the vehicle.

Djaliz stared down his gunsight… at Colonel Ahmed, supreme commander of the Combined Air Force. Djaliz quickly holstered his weapon. Ahmed ignored him in his rush to the passenger door. When he opened it, Djaliz could see the form of the Khalib himself, Mohammed al-Sihoud.

He at least had enough presence of mind to snap to attention, eyes focused on the horizon, but from the corner of his eye he could see that the Khalib was in bad shape.

“Help me with him, airman,” Ahmed ordered.

The two men grabbed the arms of the Khalib, who seemed conscious but weak, dazed.

“Sir, what happened?”

Ahmed shook his head, hauling the general to the ladder.

“Get him in the back seat,” Ahmed said when they had reached the ladder. “General, can you climb?”

“I think so.” The airman helped him up the steep ladder.

Ahmed returned to the U-10, found a clipboard with a scrap of paper and scrawled on it. He looked it over, checked his watch and continued writing, finally folding the paper in two, then again. He hurried over to the jet. Djaliz had gotten Sihoud into the rear seat and was strapping him in, putting on his flight helmet and strapping on the oxygen mask. He stepped back down the ladder and faced Colonel Ahmed.

The colonel looked Djaliz over for a moment, then handed him the piece of paper.

“You know where the Quchara Communication Base is?”

“Twenty kilometers on Highway 2, north, sir.”

“Take the U-10 and get to the base as fast as the truck can go. Have them transmit that immediately on the VLF set— very low frequency. Can you remember that? Very low frequency.”