Phoenix Sub Zero

The Firestar had flown without incident for almost an hour, cruising at twelve kilometers altitude at one and a half times the speed of sound. During the trip Ahmed let the computer fly the aircraft, content to monitor the systems, keeping a careful eye on navigation and the electronic sensors that guarded against incoming missiles and radars. Other than the normal surface-and air-search radars at sea in the Med and. in the southern shores of Greece, there had been no unusual activity. Ahmed had even begun to wonder if it was perhaps too quiet. Occasionally he selected his onboard monitor to the rear-facing camera, checking General Sihoud. The Khalib had slept most of the trip, his flight helmet against the canopy. The Firestar had skirted Israeli territories to the north and crossed over Kassab and the dark waters of the Mediterranean before Sihoud awoke.

The general tapped on the top of Ahmed’s seat, trying to get his attention.

“Go ahead and speak into the oxygen mask. General. It has a voice-activated intercom.” “Where are we?” Sihoud asked, his voice rasping and weak.

“How do you feel, sir? If you’re thirsty there’s an insulated bottle under the right console.”

Sihoud fumbled for the bottle. Ahmed watched the Khalib on his monitor, seeing how tentatively he moved. He wondered if the general would be strong enough to make it to the submarine — the only way other than a high-risk ditching to get to the sub would be to bail out at the lowest

speed and altitude the jet could fly, as near the surfaced submarine as possible. And bailing out, taking a parachute’s g-forces, hitting the water and swimming to a submarine were not easily done by sick men. Ahmed bit his lip.

“I think I need to see a doctor. Rakish. As soon as we land.” Sihoud coughed violently.

“General, we will not be landing. This is the last flight for this aircraft. We will be abandoning it over the sea. The Hegira will be waiting for us.”

“What? What are we doing?”

“Sir, for the next two weeks the war will be fought without you. I have already raised Generals lhaffe, Ramadan, and Ben Abbas. They all reported they had explicit instructions from you on the conduct of the campaigns in North Africa, the Sinai, and southern Iran. I told them that the primary objective is not to counterattack but to hold on for the seven to ten days it will take us to assemble the Scorpion missile and deliver it to its target.” “You told them about the Scorpion on a radio circuit, Ahmed?” “No, Khalib. I only told them to hold on and give us the time. They do not need to know about the Scorpion, not yet.

The fewer who know, the less chance of compromising the surprise of this operation. I do not want the Americans waiting for us.”

“The generals are smart and good fighters, but they are not coordinated without me. Rakish. I must return to the field for our defense. I need to—”

“Sir, wherever you are, the eyes of our enemies are watching, and they will continue to send their squads to kill you. If you believe that the armies are lost without you for fourteen days, imagine the war without you forever.

This is how they think. General, and they are not stupid.

The attack on the main bunker was not just a missile attack.”

Ahmed felt he had to say the next part, not out of pride but to convince the Khalib that the Coalition was after his head. “There were troops, dozens of them, dropped by parachute, probably from the airplane that we detected.

We found their mobile vehicles in the desert. They penetrated the bunker perimeter and murdered our security troops. If the missiles didn’t kill you, the assassins would.

There is nowhere that you are safe. General, not until the Scorpions are on their way. Until then you will do best by going aboard the Hegira and waiting. And while you wait you will get your strength back and recover from your wounds.”

Ahmed waited for Sihoud to digest his words, worried that the Khalib would veto the plan — for that matter, so would he had he sat in Sihoud’s place.

But there was no answer from the aft seat.

* * *

Lt. Joe Galvin flipped through the tactical attack plan binder, a stenopad-sized flip chart strapped to his thigh, and searched through the alphanumeric codes, knowing that he’d just been screwed.

The letters sierra delta foxtrot had been transmitted by the air boss just a few seconds before, and Galvin knew the code transmission meant their mission was being changed. For the tenth time in this war, Galvin had felt like turning off the radio after his F-14 Tomcat fighter lifted off the deck of the Reagan; at least that way the brass would not be able to redirect his missions in flight. But as soon as the thought had formed Galvin stifled it. What good was a fighter if it couldn’t be redirected in mid-flight — little better than a mindless bullet. And if fighter pilots wanted to be replaced by robotic cruise missiles, they could all keep thinking like Galvin had been before.