Phoenix Sub Zero

There was no answer. Ahmed’s mouth felt coppery and his flightsuit felt wet with his sweat. He could not help thinking again that this was a bad idea … the ejection could easily kill the general. He needed immediate medical attention and floating for an hour in the Mediterranean was not a way to get it. Ahmed knew he was out of options—then pulled the stick steadily back while reaching for the canopy manual-release handle. He rotated the red handle to the arm position, then all the way to the release position. Thirty explosive bolts fired and the canopy vanished, the cold air of the slipstream blasting into the cockpit, threatening to knock off their oxygen masks and flight helmets. The violence of it smashed Ahmed’s helmet against the headrest several times, reminding him to get on with the eject sequence before they were both beaten into comas. Ahmed throttled the engines down to idle and pulled the stick all the way back to his crotch. The jet inclined upward, the forward airspeed decaying. The stick trembled as the jet protested the lack of lift on the wings. At the moment of complete wing-stall, the jet’s kinetic energy at a minimum, Ahmed lifted the protective cover off the switch marked rear seat eject and popped the toggle switch past its detent, then inward at a right angle.

Behind him Sihoud’s ejection-seat rocket motor ignited, spraying Ahmed with heat and flames as the general flew out into the atmosphere. The jet then stalled completely, its nose diving for the sea. Ahmed held on long enough to get the aircraft out of the way of Sihoud’s descent, then armed the switch between his legs for his own ejection seat. Just before hitting the switch he keyed the jet’s turbines to full thrust and felt the acceleration for a moment, then released the stick and snapped the ejection switch.

It happened so fast that Ahmed’s senses were over whelmed. His spine shuddered as the ejection seat blasted into his posterior, the downward g-forces threatening to black him out. The airflow smashed into him, carrying away his oxygen mask and ripping his thigh pad off his flightsuit.

The world tumbled around him in a vicious spiral, leaving Ahmed feeling like he was being bounced down a blue runnel. Finally the turbulence ended, leaving only the wind of free fall. The seat parachute deployed, jerking Ahmed up ward. He looked for Sihoud’s parachute but couldn’t find it.

He floated down toward the water.

The end of the ride came, the inviting blue water soaking him. He cut away the seat and found the parcel strapped into the seat cushion and pulled it free, then released the pin. The parcel blew up into an inflated raft, big enough for two men, a small compartment of rations and water tucked into one section of it. When the raft steadied, Ahmed climbed into it and began his search for General Sihoud and the submarine.

Chapter 5 Thursday, 26 December

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

THE PENTAGON

The snow had been falling since nightfall Wednesday and was now, in the early hours of a sleepy Thursday morning, piled almost a foot deep. Adm. Richard Donchez’s staff car rear door opened and the admiral burst out and took the icy steps to the V.I.P entrance two at a time. Captain Rummel met him just inside the door. Donchez barely acknowledged him, ignoring the V.I.P elevator and sprinting up the stairs to the fourth deck. As he hurried he doffed his heavy overcoat and unloaded it on Rummel, his hat next.

Donchez scanned into Flag Plot and entered the room, his first Havana firing up as he joined Admirals Dee Watson and John Traeps at a chart table littered with messages, code publications, and intelligence briefs. At the far wall an enlarged electronic chart glowed dark green, a lighter shade marking the shores of the Mediterranean. Hieroglyphics denoting ships and aircraft and bases cluttered the chart, vectors drawn from some of the symbols, others moving visibly as the chart updated every thirty seconds.

Donchez wasted no time. He stared through the cloud of cigar smoke at vice C.N.O Watson and commander Mediterranean forces Traeps.

“What is it?” he asked curtly.

“Firestar fighter, Admiral.” Watson’s jowls sagged almost all the way to his dirty collar, which was soaked with sweat despite the chill of the room. “Son of a bitch swatted away the escort F-14s like they were flies. Both crashed into the sea. We’ve got no idea why. One crew was recovered. The pilot reported he lost all power and thinks it was something the Firestar did. The SOB kept flying to the west. And that ain’t all. Show him, John.”

Traeps pulled a satellite photograph off the table. His gray hair was in place, his uniform looking like it came from the photo in the Navy Uniform Regulations manual. Traeps’s appearance always annoyed Donchez, he looked like one of those absurdly handsome older men that graced the casts of women’s soap operas or vitamin-supplement commercials.