Lava tipped up a wing for a better look at what was beneath them. He saw a cluster of glowing yellow lights far to his left and the distant coastline of Libya on the right. Otherwise, the sea was black. It wasn’t a perfect survey, but he was at least convinced there weren’t any cruise ships beneath them.
Everyone configured their switches and initiated the jettison. From six miles up, thirty-two five-hundred-pound smart bombs dropped off their pylons like aerodynamic rocks into the night. There was no steering or guidance, and when they struck the sea over a minute later, it was all splash and no boom. Jettisonedbombs weren’t armed, so the fuses never activated. All sank harmlessly in miles of briny water.
Next came the external fuel tanks. Each aircraft carried two, and soon they were empty—external fuel was always burned before internal. While the four-hundred-eighty-gallon tanks were often referred to as “drop tanks,” they were rarely jettisoned, and only for one of two good reasons: to safely get back aboard the boat, or out of necessity in combat.
Tonight, the latter applied. It wouldn’t be air-to-air combat in the traditional sense, but shooting down drones had become a common tasking in recent years, particularly on Med cruises. As hostile aircraft went, drones were easy prey. They were stupid targets that generally didn’t maneuver. Best of all, they didn’t shoot back. Such engagements weren’t as swashbuckling as dogfights with enemy fighters, but they kept noncombatants on the ground safe. On this night, apparently, more than ever.
The four pilots punched off their externals within seconds of one other. Eight giant tapered tanks, each the length of a small sedan, wobbled and disappeared into the darkness.
That done, the Hornets were as clean as they could be. The only remaining weapon on each jet: the internal twenty-millimeter Vulcan gatling gun with four hundred and twelve rounds. Tonight would be back to basics. No long-range radar or heat-seeking missiles. Just four gunslingers headed to a shootout at a radioactive corral.
“Glock two-one’s pushing it up!” Lava said. He jammed the throttles to the first stop, then engaged the afterburners. His wingmen did the same. Eight GE F414 engines spewed forty-foot cones of fire, and in a tiny segment of sky south of Crete night went to day.
Glock 21 flight blew through Mach 1 and continued to accelerate. Radars sweeping, eyes sharp, they began searching for their targets.
66
Situation Room
The White House
Washington, D.C.
2049 Local Time
Clark’s report arrived in the form of a burst message. Task Force 99 had captured one of Malenkov’s technicians, and Clark had extracted useful information from him. No one asked by what methods.
“This is gold,” Burgess said. “Now we know the point on the canal being targeted and the time of the strike.”
“I’m not sure about the time,” Ryan said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but ‘true dawn’ doesn’t equate to sunrise.”
“Correct,” Kent seconded. “I’ve spent a fair amount of time in that part of the world.Al-farjrefers to first light, not necessarily sunrise. It’s the period for the morning call to prayer in Islam. I’d say this strike could happen anywhere in a forty-minute window.”
The President checked the clock and corrected for time zones. “It’s going to be close.”
“That it will. And the fact that these drones will approach from ten different routes is going to spread our Hornets thin.”
Try as he might, the President could think of nothing more to do. They simply had to hope the Hornets could intercept the drones in time. Ryan then reread the burst message from Al-Jaghbub. He addressed Mary Pat. “Clark mentioned that he recovered Malenkov’s phone.”
“Correct,” she said.
“How quickly could we exploit that?”
Mary Pat considered it. “CIA could probably do it remotely, but right now we don’t have the right signal with Clark’s device—only burst messaging.”
“I may be able to help with that,” said Admiral Kent. “Our Hawkeye is pretty close to Libya. They might be able to set up a data link.”
“Let’s try,” Ryan said. “And make it quick.”
Al-Jaghbub Airfield
Clark was on the ramp outside the IL-76 pulling the chocks clear of the main wheels. He had performed a lot of duties in his day, but this was his first time he’d served as a crew chief to launch a heavy jet. He dragged the massive rubber chocks clear and left them on the tarmac.
The jet was ready to roll.
The wind whipped fiercely as he trotted toward the boarding stairs. He could see the storm coming in the wash of the perimeter floodlights, a churning wall of brown. They were trying to get airborne before it swept over the airfield.
He’d just reached the stairs when his phone rang. Surprised, he pulled the handset from his pocket and saw a solid signal. Last he’d checked there had been only satellite comm for burst messaging.There was no caller ID—the CIA being its usual surreptitious self—but he suspected he knew who it was.
