Next
As the Concorde passed through Genoa air traffic control and headed east toward Malta, the ACC's face appeared on the screen in the communications center. He was speaking from the Operations Room at Scotland Yard. Tyreen Mackenzie had never seen Harry Fuller look more tired. At the same time, he sounded triumphant, a wide smile on his face.
"We've got them all, Mackenzie. Twenty-six of the little bastards. Students, girls mostly," began the ACC. "They each had a key to Kadumi's flat. By the time the first bint walked in, we'd removed the vials in the freezer and the two bottles and sent them to Porton Down. The scientists there say that even though the anthrax is diluted, it's still lethal. Anyway, we managed to get our own vials in place and everything went tickety-boo." At times, the ACC could sound firmly anchored in another age.
Tyreen couldn't keep a smile from coming to her face. The ACC knew that, appearances to the contrary, she wasn't all that much younger than he was, and she too had once spoken like that.
"The collectors each took what they were supposed to from the freezer and walked out again," continued the ACC. "We let them get well clear of the place and then nabbed them, and we knew we'd got them all when the freezer was empty. The decontamination people are going through the place now."
Behind her, Tyreen could hear the low voice of Wolfie briefing Chantal Bouquet in Tel Aviv and Michelle reporting to Matti Talim in New York what the ACC was saying. Shema and Jacob Chernow were a few rows back, getting what sleep they could.
"Are the collectors talking?" asked Tyreen, looking up from the notepad on her knees.
"Some. They're proud as hell of what they'd been asked to do. Real little ayatollahs, some of them, filled with hatred. Reckon that even if we've got them, there's plenty more waiting in the wings to take their places." He gave his head a brief shake.
"Any line on targets?"
"Reservoirs and water pumping stations. London Underground and the Stock Exchange. Major department stores throughout the country. A very wide spread to create maximum havoc."
"What about Effendi?" she asked.
The ACC nodded vigorously. "A real hero. Once we picked him up and told him we were charging him, for starters, with conspiring to kill Saleem Arish, it was real save-your-own skin time. He wanted to trade and naturally we said we'd listen. Right now, Percy West and his people are promising him a one-way ticket to a country of his choice. The reality is that our Mr. Effendi isn't going any further than the Scrubs or Pentonville once we've squeezed him."
"Has he said anything about Harmoos, Harry?" asked Chernow, slipping into the seat beside Tyreen, She hadn't even heard him coming. She held up her notepad so he could read it.
"Enough," answered the ACC, giving a small nod of his head to acknowledge Chernow's arrival. "Harmoos has been Raza's money broker. Percy's people have found all sorts of interesting documents in Effendi's flat. Bank transfers from Colombia to Switzerland. Huge sums switched around Europe. Respectable evidence that ties in the drug cartels with Raza and Harmoos."
"Hold a moment, Harry." Chernow turned to the CCO. "Get me Bill Gates in Washington," he said, then turned back to the screen. "You were saying, Harry?"
"We've started to backtrack on what looks like a list of safe houses stocked with arms and explosives in this country and Europe. A full-blown terror network. We've got the Germans, the Dutch, and the Belgians raiding. It looks like before we've finished, pretty well every country between Spain and Sweden is going to have to be combed."
"Good work, Harry," said Chernow. Tyreen added her own sentiments.
"Good luck, Jacob. And you, Mackenzie."
Chernow watched the screen from London rapidly darken, then turned to the image from Washington. He told Gates what the ACC had said, with Tyreen filling in the gaps from the earlier part of the conversation.
"That's more than enough for me to declare war on Harmoos." Gates' voice was crisp and businesslike. "With this, I don't need a Surveillance Court authorization. I can put together a joint FBI-DEA Task Force with local police backup and tear everything Harmoos owns in this country apart."
"Bill, I don't want you to do that," said Chernow quickly. "I don't want you to do anything."
Gates' expression was stony. "What the hell are you saying, Jacob?"
"We still don't know how many bottles actually got into the United States, Bill," Chernow told the camera gravely. "Even if you launch a simultaneous raid, there's no guarantee you'll be able to move fast enough to grab every bottle. By all means, get a task force together. But they don't move until we are absolutely certain we have pinpointed those bottles."
Gates continued to stare out of the screen. "What about Harmoos?"
"Again, do nothing."
Gates gave a small shake of his head. "I was never very good at doing nothing."
Chernow watched Gates run the back of a large hairy hand across his face. "Trust me, Bill."
Gates gave a quick, unexpected smile. "In my book, you're still the one guy I do trust absolutely, Jacob."
Chernow nodded in acknowledgement before breaking the connection.
The outer ring of escorts was visible mostly by the white wakes left behind on the dark surface. Above were the thin contrails of the fighters flying top cover, the planes themselves invisible to the naked eye.
The Hawker-Siddeley Sea Harrier in the colors of the Royal Navy flew on at its sedate, subsonic speed. The IFF system had given the proper responses to the challenges, as had the pilot. In addition, a couple of Tomcats had come by for a visual identification.
The Independence was now visible straight ahead, foamy wake boiling behind. The Harrier continued to close the distance, approaching from aft.
After hanging up, Chernow had moved back to his earlier seat. For the next forty minutes, he sat in that seat and slept soundly. Around him, the technicians continued to maintain circuits to Tel Aviv and the Independence. Tyreen checked in once again with MI-6 in London and with Pierre Lacouste in Paris.
As the Concorde entered Maltese airspace, the carrier radioed the news that Danny Nagier's helicopters were safely on board and that the other British contingent had reported in and was expected shortly.
The Sea Harrier FRS.4 appeared a minute early. It hovered briefly off the Independence's port beam as the pilot sized up his landing target, the wind, and the sea conditions. Maintaining a steady thirty-knot forward speed to compensate for the carrier's forward speed, he sideslipped his fighter neatly to the right, then dropped it gently amidships, slightly forward of the Independence's island structure, exactly in the center of the flight deck. Instantly, a gang of deck crewman raced to the aircraft, three carrying heavy metal chocks, another pair carrying metal ladders that they set up by the cockpit, whose canopy was already coming open. A team of four snaked a fueling hose toward the aircraft, eager to demonstrate the speed with which the US Navy services aircraft.
Both the pilot and his passenger were dressed in orange coveralls and yellow life jackets. The pilot set his helmet on the back of the front seat and came down the ladder.
Retaining the helmet, the passenger unstrapped and stood up in the back. Disdaining the ladder, the passenger vaulted over the side of the cockpit, landing a good eight feet behind the startled sailor holding the ladder, knees barely flexing to absorb the impact.
The sailor was further startled when the passenger removed the helmet and shook out her long black hair. Now that she was standing on the flight deck, he could see that there was quite a shape inside that coverall. It made him remember just how long he'd been at sea.
Her bright blue eyes shone as she gave him a dazzling smile, then turned and walked back to the Harrier, reaching for a recessed handle on the underside of the craft. Twisting and pulling the lever, she opened a compartment. Retrieving a small shoulder bag from the cramped space about the size of a small refrigerator, slinging it over her shoulder, and closing the compartment, she turned back to him. "Where do I find Major Nagier?" she asked.
Her voice was sweet and musical, again reminding him how long he'd been at sea. "Um, yes, ma'am," he stammered out. "This way, please." He turned and started to walk away.
"Don't you think you'd better take this with you?"
He turned back to find her holding the ladder in one hand. "Um, yes, of course, ma'am." He reached out for the ladder with his right hand, only to have its weight pull him down. It took both of his hands to hold the ladder she had held so easily with one of hers.
The pilot watched briefly to be sure his passenger and aircraft, not necessarily in that order, were in capable hands. "Excuse me, Commander," he said to the passenger before turning and sprinting to the island.
The sailor, still carrying the ladder, led the woman at a more sedate pace toward the island. "Um, ma'am, do you...?"
"No, I'm fine," she replied in that same musical voice.
There was one thing neither the British nor the Americans have ever put in a fighter. They fill pilots up with coffee and tea and send them off, and they have no place to go.
Securing the ladder, the sailor led the way inside. The inside of the Independence was the usual maze navy maze of steel bulkheads and pipes, everything painted the same shade of cave-gray. The pipes had some colored bands and stenciled acronyms, which probably meant something to the men who ran the ship. To Marlen, they might as well have been neolithic cave paintings.
They met the pilot coming out, having finished his business. "See you again, Commander," he said, flattening himself against a bulkhead to allow her and her escort to pass.
She didn't pass. Keeping her bag slung over her shoulder, she pinned him to the bulkhead with her body and gave him a very unmilitary kiss.
"Thanks for the ride," she whispered after breaking off the kiss. "Maybe we can ride together again sometime." She then released him and followed her escort.
It was several seconds before the pilot felt his legs were steady enough to take his weight. He continued to lean against the bulkhead for support, watching after the departing woman until she disappeared from sight around a corner. He could still all but feel her lips against his, her firm breasts against his chest. And her voice had been so full of promise, beyond what that oh too brief kiss had hinted at.
The sailor hadn't been oblivious to the brief interplay between the woman and her pilot. The tightness in his pants once again reminded him how long he had been at sea. He was glad she was behind him, unaware that with her bright blue eyes she could have easily seen his body's response from behind, right through his clothes and body. He tried to maintain a steady gait as he led the woman deeper into the bowels of the huge aircraft carrier.
Shortly afterward, the Concorde swooped over the Dingli Cliffs and cast its great delta shadow over the old Inquisitor's Summer Palace before landing at Luqa. The plane came to a stop close to a US Navy Jet-Ranger helicopter.
Chernow snapped open his eyes, stood up, and stretched. He felt completely refreshed.
"Shut down everything except a line to the Independence," he instructed the CCO. As he left the plane, he told the captain to prepare a flight plan for JFK airport in New York. Then he led Shema, Tyreen, Wolfie, and Michelle over to the Jet-Ranger.
The helicopter lifted into the warm night air and headed south. They were in total darkness, except for the streaks of white on the water.
An hour later, the Independence rose like a cliff out of the heaving sea. The carrier was completely blacked out as they passed over the fantail and drifted onto the flight deck, close to where Nagier's helicopters were parked. The Royal Navy Sea Harrier jump-jet had already come and gone, dropping off its lone passenger.
As he stepped from the Jet-Ranger, Chernow sensed the Independence coming to full operational readiness. Bracing himself against the motion of the ship's bow as she rode the swell, he glanced at the sky. It was inky black, without a star.
A young lieutenant jg in whites came running forward, and saluted. He wore mufflers and carried more in his hand. "Colonel Chernow?"
Chernow nodded.
"Major Nagier and his people are in the movie theater we're using as a briefing room. Briefing's at twenty-two hundred. Meantime, they'd like you in Cat-See." He held out one set of mufflers to Chernow.
Michelle, Wolfie, and Shema followed an enlisted man inside, presumably to the theater.
Taking the mufflers, Chernow gestured to Tyreen to accompany him. The lieutenant hesitated; his orders had said nothing about bringing a woman into Cat-See.
The Carrier Air Traffic Control Center was the nerve center of operations at night. It had last been in action in the Gulf War, dispatching the Independence's air armada against Iraq.
"It's okay," Chernow told him. "She's a lieutenant commander in the Royal Navy."
The jig looked at the woman. The tall brunette didn't look to be any older than he was, and yet she outranked him by two grades? But he wasn't about to argue with a colonel. "Of course, ma'am." He held out another set of mufflers.
"Thank you, leftenant," she said, taking the mufflers. "Lead on."
As they hurried from the flight deck, a sudden roar of an aero engine running up to full military power disturbed the air.
"Seen this before?" asked the officer.
"Only on film," smiled Chernow.
"Not the same," said the officer. "Best get your mufflers on."
Tyreen simply smiled, having had previous experience aboard Royal Navy carriers. Though she had to admit to herself as she put the mufflers over her ears, the two General Electric F110-GE-400 turbofans on the Tomcat certain made much more noise than the single Rolls-Royce Pegasus on the Sea Harrier.
They all huddled against the towering superstructure of the carrier's island rising six stories above them. From along the angled flight deck came the shimmer of burnt-off fuel. The roar rose in an ear-shattering crescendo.
From somewhere beneath his feet, Chernow heard what sounded like two giant valves suddenly opening. Then came the impact of a solid wall of steam expanding itself against the catapult pistons. A fully-loaded F-14 Tomcat streaked past and lifted into the air, the air shimmering from its afterburner.
Moments later, there was the sound of another engine running up. The jig led his charges inside. But even with a closed door between them, they could still hear the powerful jet engines outside.
One hundred and fifty flying miles away, from the window of Raza's office, Nadine watched the freed Feydeheen arriving by bus. They were tired but cheerful and were greeted as heroes. Even hardened instructors embraced them and several of the camp's women staff kissed them.
With the Feydeheen had come the official from the ministry who had so angered Raza earlier. While the men were being dispersed to their billets, he strode toward the villa.
Nadine met him at the door. "You have arranged for him to travel to America?" she asked.
The official nodded. "He will be there in the morning."
There was something about the man that made her dislike him. Perhaps it was his condescending smile, or the way he rubbed his hands together, a curious washing motion, as if he carried some secret guilt. "Is there anything else?" she asked.
"I'm to inform you these men will be permitted to stay here only for twenty-four hours," said the diplomat with undisguised satisfaction. "We cannot afford to antagonize world opinion by their continued presence."
Nadine stared at him with contempt. "Your concern will not be forgotten," she said icily.
He turned on his heels and walked back to the bus. For one fleeting moment, he had wondered what she would have done if he had told her the truth. But the Supreme Leader had personally ordered there must be no warning. And after all, a handful of terrorists were expendable when measured against the promises Appleton had made that soon the Colonel would no longer be a pariah, but a welcome guest in Washington.
After the bus left, Nadine went to the broadcast studio. On the desk beside the Voice Throw console was the set of tapes Raza had made with her shortly before leaving the camp. Following his clear instructions, she began to activate the transponders he had positioned in Africa and Asia. Afterward, she would inform Nuri that Faruk Kadumi was on his way to New York.
In the Cat-See, the Air Operations Officer paused in his briefing to check one of the two monitor screens. They provided continuous infrared pictures from the several cameras positioned around the flight deck. Dim red lights provided the only illumination in the Cat-See. Even though the room seemed cramped, Tyreen noted that it was more spacious than similar rooms aboard the Royal Navy's smaller aircraft carriers.
On the monitor, a flight deck tractor towed an A-6 fighter-bomber to the hookup area near the bow catapult. Sailors secured the aircraft with chocks and chains. The tractor was unhooked and it trundled away to collect another plane.
One of the ensigns, wearing battery-operated telephone headsets, recorded the arrival of the bomber on the Plexiglas status board completely covering one wall.
The AOO turned back to Chernow. "As well as your own strike force, we're putting up both our Tomcat squadrons and our two F-18 squadrons, plus every serviceable A-6. Hopefully, there won't be much left when they've delivered their punch."
On the monitor, another fighter-bomber arrived on deck, fueled and armed. Chernow could make out the shape of the cluster bombs beneath the wings. Every Rockeye was designed to air detonate and release fifteen hundred bomblets, each containing an explosive charge capable of piercing reinforced concrete.
"Our Hawkeye is reporting all quiet in the target area," continued the AOO. "What looks like a truck or bus arrived an hour ago. It's on its way out. Otherwise nothing."
Six miles above the Independence, the twin-engined turboprop with its ugly-looking radar dome continued to fly a leisurely circle, its scanners probing several hundred square miles of desert.
Another fighter-bomber was being towed across the monitor.
"Weather going to hold?" asked Tyreen. Born and raised in Britain, she was not unfamiliar with weather as a topic of conversation.
"Should be okay, but you can never tell. This time of year, it can shift up to seventy degrees in an hour. That can play hell when it comes to keeping a final recovery bearing."
"Tripoli still cooperating?" asked Chernow.
The AOO smiled thinly. "Yes, it helps that they know we're here, and all the people we've got looking down on them. Come and have a look."
Chernow and Tyreen followed him into an adjoining room, bathed in an unearthly green light from the scopes, radar screens, and computer VDUs. Before each sat a shirt-sleeved ensign with a headset. A senior chief petty officer wearing a master headset paced behind the junior officers, watching and quietly giving orders.
"Hold it, Tel Aviv," he said into his lip mike. "You can ask him yourself." He handed a headset to Chernow.
He heard Chantal Bouquet's voice. "Jacob, Moeshe's boys are on the runway. Do they roll?"
Chernow smiled as he nodded. "Yes."
"Okay. Now, here's the other thing: we've picked up that woman's voice again, and Raza's. He appears to be calling her from Aden. The technical boys place her in Bangkok."
"What are they saying?" asked Chernow, as Tyreen also got a headset and listened in.
"He's told her Tokyo will be the next to be delivered," said Chantal.
Chernow stared hard at one of the screens. "Have Karshov call the Japanese Prime Minister. He'll know what to do."
"Could this be a diversion?" asked Tyreen. "A bluff?"
"We'll only know for sure when we reach the base."
"Then it could be too late."
"That's always a possibility," acknowledged Chernow, taking off the headset. He turned to the CPO. "So tell me?"
"Right." The CPO nodded, giving Tyreen time to remove her headset. "Since the Air France jumbo left, Tripoli airport's been closed. Officially, their radar's gone on the blink. The truth is, we've scrambled it." He turned to a large scope. A series of circles ran from the center blip. "The target area. Still no untoward activity." He pushed buttons on a keyboard. The screen cleared and remained blank for a moment. Then a splurge of dots appeared. "The Egyptian army. They've got a regiment up on their border. No way Raza or his people can scoot that way. The same on the other side, the Tunisians are waiting. He can't go south, because the desert will get him. If he tries to make a break by sea, we'll spot him. We've got him all nicely boxed in."
Chernow smiled pleasantly. He'd heard that before.
From the villa's bedroom window, Nadine watched the frost begin to crust the sand. It was too dark to see the sentries changing, but she could hear their low voices. Outside the door, she heard the padding footsteps of a guard.
She turned from the window and went into the bathroom. While the tub was running, she undressed, then sank into the warm perfumed water.
As he strode onto the stage of the carrier's movie theater, Chernow saw that Shema and Michelle were dressed in the same black fatigues and combat boots as the row of commandos sitting in comfortable Pullman chairs. Wolfie sat on the other side of Shema. Tyreen sat and conversed in low tones with another woman, both also dressed in black fatigues. Danny Nagier stood between two blackboards mounted on easels onstage.
One board was covered with a large sketch of Raza's camp, based on what Shema had described. The other board was covered with satellite photos.
The row of helicopter pilots were staring intently at the photos while the commandos concentrated on the sketch.
All conversation stopped as Chernow picked up a pointer and tapped the sketch. "Target: Raza's complex. One villa. Underground bunkers. Billets. Arsenal. A lab. The opposition. Anything between three-fifty and five hundred terrorists. Well armed."
Chernow paused to let them digest the size and strength of the enemy, and then turned to the satellite photos and addressed the pilots. "Route to target is sea level to the coast. There are dunes up to sixty feet running for a mile inland, then flat scrub. Two miles from target, there are hillocks."
He turned back to the sketch map. "The compound makes a good set-down point, but watch for crossfire. Hopefully, it will be minimal."
For the next thirty minutes, Chernow told them everything that Shema had told him. Next, he described the air strike that would precede the helicopter assault. He paused and motioned for Tyreen, Wolfie, Michelle, and Shema to join him on stage. "Take a good look at them. They will be going in first with me. Major Nagier will lead the rest of you in. I don't want any mistakes. Pick your targets. We've got twenty minutes on the ground. That should be enough if everyone does his job. Questions?"
Goodman shifted in his seat. "The chances are there will be women and children. What do we do with them?"
Chernow glanced at Shema, who gave a quick little nod.
"There are women and children. We don't know how many or where they will be. But let me remind you, you do not shoot unless they fire first. Then they become a legitimate target."
Heads nodded.
Chernow looked toward the projection box at the rear of the theater. The lights dimmed and he turned to the movie screen above the stage. "I want you to take a careful look at the faces you are going to see now."
On the screen came a photograph of Faruk Kadumi.
"You take him alive," ordered Chernow.
Heads nodded again. Chernow continued with the briefing. Even though she'd helped him prepare it, Tyreen listened attentively. So did every other person in the auditorium.
The voice of the Jet-Ranger pilot crackled in Chernow's headset. "We're at assigned altitude. Five minutes to coast."
Chernow keyed the mike. "Anything on radar?"
"Sky's as clear as a nun's conscience," reported the pilot. Still ten-tenths cloud, with sea haze extending well inland."
"Any wind change?"
"Still light westerley. Ten knots off the sea."
Wolfie and the three women gave a final check to the straps of their parachutes and backpacks, and clipped their Uzis to their webbing. Attached to Wolfie and Michelle's belts were crossbows and paniers of bolts. Tyreen checked her ever-present Walther PPK Special and its spare clips before checking the pouch with numerous hand grenades within it. Shema quickly checked the throwing knives she'd placed in the ankle pocket in her trousers.
"It'll be no harder than jumping from that tower," Tyreen told Shema.
Shema had described the training regime at the camp and the practice jumps that formed part of the assault course training. She smiled. "Easier. Raza used to have his instructors shoot at us with live ammunition."
Tyreen refrained from mentioning that Raza's men could very well be shooting at them with live ammunition on this jump. And this time, they would not be shooting to miss.
The copilot was in the cabin. He clipped his safety harness to a stanchion. "Time to go, folks," he said cheerfully. "You'll get down a lot quicker than we took to get up here."
Chernow could feel the rotors struggling to maintain pitch at fourteen thousand feet. As the copilot opened the door, a red bulb glowed over the opening, and icy air filled the cabin.
"Line up," ordered the copilot.
Wolfie would jump first, then Michelle, followed by Shema and Tyreen, and finally Chernow. He watched as each gave a last check on the chinstraps on their jump hats.
Through his headset, he listened one last time to the pilot from the flight deck. "Your battle strike force is presently over Egypt. Your other choppers have just lifted off from he carrier, and our strikers are lining up on the ramp. You're all set, Colonel."
Chernow gave an acknowledgement, then removed the headset and put on his jump hat, tightening the chinstrap.
The red light suddenly turned green and the copilot tapped Wolfie on the shoulder. He vanished through the door, followed moments later by Michelle.
"Once you're clear, just remember to count to ten and pull the toggle," Tyreen shouted in Shema's ear. Shema nodded wordlessly.
"Go!" yelled the copilot, tapping Shema on the shoulder.
She disappeared through the door, followed immediately by Tyreen.
The colonel took his place in the open door.
"Go!"
Jacob Chernow plunged into the void.
Nadine stood at the bedroom window. She wore one of Raza's robes that she liked to sleep in when he was away. She wondered again where he was and when he would be back. She had not realized how much she would miss him.
Outside the bunker housing the broadcast studio and the laboratory, she saw the sudden flare of a match. The fool of a guard! Raza had forbidden anyone to smoke near the bunker because of the petrol stored above the ceiling to destroy the lab in an emergency. Picking up the Kalashnikov kept beside the bed, Nadine left the bedroom.
The frost-skimmed sand crunched under her feet as she ran to the bunker. She spotted the guard huddling in the lee of the building against the intense cold. He struggled to his feet as she approached, plucking the cigarette from his mouth. She smashed it from his hand with a furious blow from the rifle, and using the Kalashnikov as a club, she beat him mercilessly. Then, trembling all over, she turned from the half-senseless man and walked back to the villa.
In the bedroom, she put the gun down beside the bed, took her throwing knives from the top drawer of the bedside cabinet, and placed them on top. She climbed into bed and dimmed the light to a mere glimmer.
Nadine had never been able to sleep alone in the dark since the time she had no longer shared a bed with Shema. She drifted into sleep remembering those nights in the refuge cam when they had lain together in the dark and listened to the men downstairs endlessly talking about how the day would surely come when their enemies would be driven from the face of the land.
Tyreen checked her compass. The camp was to the north. She picked up the lightweight scanner. When she had her back to the sea, small shadows began to appear on the screen. "A small vehicle. Two men," she murmured. "About half a mile ahead."
"The perimeter guards in their Jeep," whispered Shema.
From beyond the crescent-shaped dune, they heard the low sound of a gear being changed.
Tyreen glanced at the luminous face of her watch. Fifteen minutes had gone since they had dropped. Thirty-five minutes before the air strike. She shoved the scope into her backpack, and at a crouching run, she led them toward the sound of the engine.
Shema suddenly stopped, pointing to a pile of stones. "Perimeter marker," she whispered. The noise of the engine was receding.
Motioning for the others to wait, she crawled forward, feeling the sand in front, then turned and beckoned them. When they reached her, she signaled for Chernow to kneel beside her, guiding his hand to the length of cable she had carefully exposed.
"Trip wire," she whispered. "It's linked to the monitor in the Jeep so they know exactly where there's been a break-in."
Chernow motioned to Wolfie and Michelle. They unclipped their crossbows before melting into the night. The sound of the Jeep's engine had almost faded when Chernow yanked the wire. Then he ran back and crouched with Shema and Tyreen behind the heaped stones.
They could hear the Jeep racing over the scree, and see its sidelights rising and falling. It stopped a few yards in front of the wire. Holding their machine pistols, the two guards climbed out. Suddenly, they both pitched forward, guns flying from their grasp, already dead before the steel-tipped bolts stopped quivering in their backs.
From the Jeep, a bored voice called out over the radio for the guards to report their position.
As Tyreen, Shema, and Chernow ran toward the vehicle, the voice was calling again to know what had happened.
Chernow picked up the hand mike. "We crossed the wire by mistake," he said in guttural Arabic. "We've got a puncture and need to come in to fix it."
"Okay," grunted the voice.
With the two women crouched in the back of the Jeep, and Wolfie beside him, Chernow drove steadily across the shingle and sand toward the villa.
"The repair shop's at the back," called Shema softly. "You can drive right in. There'll be nobody there at this hour."
Ten minutes later, they entered the deserted workshop bunker and parked the Jeep. Tyreen checked her watch: twenty minutes to strike time.
The sound of the incoming Jeep awakened Nadine. She lay in the semidarkness, listening. The Jeep should be out on the perimeter. She reached for the bedside phone and dialed the radio room at the rear of the villa. The duty operator told her what had happened.
Sighing, Nadine put down the telephone and settled down to sleep, pulling the covers over her head.
At a crouching run, Uzi in hand, Tyreen followed Shema across the sand toward the villa. She held her weapon high across her body. Wolfie and Michelle brought up the rear, each with an bolt fitted in their crossbow.
"Kitchen door," mouthed Shema in Tyreen's ear, pointing at a doorway to their right. "It's always left unlocked for the outside guards to come and make tea."
Tyreen pressed an ear against the door. Silence. She squinted through the keyhole. No one passed across her field of vision. She turned the handle and eased open the door. The others slipped in after her. Chernow closed the door behind him, slipping the bolt in place.
Shema pointed to two doors. "One goes to the dining room, the other leads to storerooms," she whispered. "The radio room is back there."
Chernow nodded and beckoned to Wolfie. While Tyreen and Shema positioned themselves behind the door of the dining room and Michelle leaned her back against the outside door, Chernow opened the one to the storage areas. He and Wolfie entered a stone-flagged passageway. There were arched openings with storerooms off them. At the end of the passage was a closed door: the radio room. Swiftly and silently, they moved down the passageway. They could hear voices beyond the door. Two men.
Suddenly there was the scraping of a chair being pushed back and footsteps from inside the room. Chernow and Wolfie edged back into the darkness. The air was filled with the faintly pungent smell of spices. There was a shaft of light as the door opened. Then footsteps were coming along the passage.
As the soldier passed, Chernow glimpsed a short, thickset figure holding two tin mugs in his hands. Tea time. Chernow stepped out lightly behind him and made a whispering sound. The man turned and Chernow drove the butt of his Uzi into the man's neck, crushing his windpipe.
Wolfie reached the half-open door. A soldier sat beside the table on which stood the radio, an assault rifle propped beside him. For one moment, he stared in disbelief at the figure in the doorway. Then, as he grabbed for the rifle, Wolfie shot him, the bolt driving through the man's chest to pinion him to the chair.
Wolfie quietly closed the door behind him and went to help Chernow drag the other dead Arab into a storeroom. Then they ran back to the kitchen.
Chernow signaled to Tyreen, who eased open the door of the dining room. Through the arched windows, which covered most of one wall, came the reflected light of frost glistening on sand. Nothing moved out there. They stood for a moment, getting their bearings, their boots sinking into the deep carpet pile. The furniture was dark and massive, and on a wall hung the paintings Shema had described.
Shema looked toward a door at the far end of the room and whispered, "Wait here. I'll bring Nadine."
The raiders flattened themselves against the wall and waited. The only sound was the click of Wolfie loading another bolt into his crossbow.
Minutes later, Shema came back alone. She looked puzzled. "Nadi's not there. Her bedroom looks as if she hasn't used it for months."
It was the first time Chernow had heard Shema use the diminutive name of her sister.
"Let's find Raza," he said softly. "He'll tell us where she is."
Shema led them into an unlit corridor in the silent villa. Rugs cushioned their footfalls. They filed past several open doors, the rooms swathed in darkness. Shema mouthed that they were offices and a prayer room.
The corridor opened into a hall, from which other corridors led. All were in darkness except one, which was dimly lt. They stopped and listened intently, then crept across the hall toward the lit corridor.
On either side were closed doors. "Bedrooms for guests or domestic staff," whispered Shema.
Slowly and silently, they moved down the corridor.
A door suddenly opened. A young woman stood there, dressed in a nightgown. Behind her was a soldier, buttoning up his trousers.
As Tyreen stepped swiftly past the girl and clubbed the soldier, Michelle slipped her hand over the girl's mouth. Wolfie helped her bundle the girl back into the room. She stared at them, wide-eyed with fright. She smelled of sex and sweat.
"Where's Nadine?" Shema hissed into the girl's ear. She remembered the girl now; she waited at table.
The girl's mouth wobbled in fear.
"Where's my sister?" demanded Shema again.
"With Raza?" asked Chernow.
The girl rolled her eyes.
"Where?" demanded Chernow.
The soldier was groaning. While Tyreen held him, Michelle yanked off the bedsheet and with Wolfie tore it into strips, which they used to gag and bind the prisoners.
Back in the corridor, Shema led them into another passage. Here, there were two doors, side by side. "The first goes to Raza's office. The next is the bedroom," she whispered.
Chernow nodded and motioned for Wolfie and Michelle to stand on either side of the bedroom door.
Shema touched Chernow's arm. "Please, let me go in alone to get Nadi out."
Chernow hesitated briefly, then agreed. "We'll be right behind you."
Shema turned the handle with infinite stealth, opening the bedroom door only wide enough for her to enter. She stood inside the door, holding the Uzi tightly in both hands, finger on the trigger, the snub barrel pointing to the huddle in the bed. Everything was exactly as she remembered it; the wardrobe, the dressing table, the bed were all in the same place. The only new feature was a fax machine. She glanced toward the door leading to the office. It was closed. Raza had always left it opened.
There was movement under the bedcovers.
Shema listened for a moment longer to the steady breathing and then walked slowly toward the bed. In the dim light, she could make out only one figure. She hesitated. Raza was alone. She looked quickly over her shoulder. Tyreen was easing open the door.
Shema swiftly stepped around the bed and used the barrel to lift the covers quickly from around the figure's head. She stepped back. "Nadi," she whispered. "Oh, Nadi!" and lowered the gun.
Nadine's hands grabbed for her knives on the night table.
"Nadi! It's me. Don't be scared. It's all right! It's me!" She continued to whisper reassurance as she stayed her sister's hand. Nadine stared at her wordlessly. Shema put the gun on the bed and reached for her sister, embracing and kissing her and murmuring endearments.
Nadine suddenly pushed her sister away and looked searchingly into her face. "How did you escape?" she asked. "Get here?"
Shema smiled. "Later, Nadi." and once more she held her sister close. Then she pulled away, looking toward the door. "Nadi, we must hurry before he finds us."
"What? What are you talking about?"
Shema stood up and picked up the Uzi. "Raza. Where is he?"
"Where is he?" echoed Nadine. "But I thought he had helped you escape?"
Shema shook her head. "No, no."
"Then how did you get here?"
"Later, Nadi. I'll tell you everything later. Just hurry and get dressed. We haven't much time."
Nadine shook her head. He was beginning to feel calmer. She looked at Shema more carefully. Why was her sister dressed like this. And the gun. How had she got hold of a Zionist weapon?
"Come on, Nadi!" urged Shema. "We've got to go!"
Nadine sat up. "Go? Go where?" Her voice was firm. "Why should we go anywhere? This is our home."
Shema put a finger to her lips. "Not so loud, Nadi. Raza could hear. We must go before the attack starts."
Nadine slid out of bed and stood staring at Shema; the Kalashnikov was on the carpet near Nadine's feet. "Attack? What attack?" Her voice was dangerously quiet. "Who is going to attack us, Shema?"
"Please, Nadi, please. Commandos! They will be here very soon!"
Nadine grabbed Shema by the shoulders and shook her roughly. "What are you saying?" she demanded. "How do you know?" She whirled toward the bedroom door where Tyreen, Michelle, and Chernow stood silently watching. Wolfie was still outside, watching the corridor.
"It's okay, Nadi," said Shema quickly. "They won't hurt you. They're here to help you."
"Who are they?" asked Nadine.
"We're Israeli," said Chernow quietly. This was no time to explain about Tyreen.
There also wasn't time. "Zionists!" shouted Nadine.
"Nadi!" cried Shema. "Stop this!"
As she moved to try and calm her sister, Nadine stooped and grabbed the Kalashnikov.
"Put that down," ordered Chernow. "No one is going to harm you. Shema's right. We are here to help you!"
Nadine glanced from the door to Shema, and back to Chernow and the two women flanking him. "Zionists!" she shouted again. "You brought Zionists here!"
"Just get dressed, Nadine," said Chernow firmly. "And tell me where Raza is."
Now she understood. They had come to kill Raza. And somehow, they had persuaded Shema to help. She turned to her sister, tears stinging her eyes. "Why? Why did you betray him?"
"He is evil, Nadi. He had used us all!"
"No! No! No!" screamed Nadine. "I love him!"
Shema stared wordlessly at Nadine, and then moved toward her.
"Get back!" screamed Nadine, raising the rifle.
"Put your gun down, Nadine," commanded Chernow.
"No!"
"Nadi! Don't!"
Nadine stared for a second at the group at the door. Then she fired. The gun kicked in her hand and great slabs of plaster and wood flew from the wall and door, but Chernow, Tyreen, and Michelle had already dived to safety.
"You Zionist whore!" screamed Nadine at her sister. "You betrayed us all. Die with them!"
Even as Nadine brought the assault rifle to bear, Shema moved. In one swift and continuous action, she stooped and pulled out a throwing knife and hurled it. The blade buried itself in Nadine's chest.
Nadine stood for a moment, mouth open. Then she gave a little gurgling sound and pitched to the floor, the gun falling from her hands. She felt a hole opening; it was dark and bottomless. She was falling. No one could stop her.
Raza! she wanted to say. Raza! I love you!
Shema knelt over her dead sister and began very softly to cry.
Then from a long way away she heard the fax machine ringing and Tyreen whispering. Then Tyreen and Michelle were gently but firmly pulling her to her feet and helping her out of the bedroom.
Chernow ripped off the fax message and shoved it in his pocket. Going back into the hallway, he closed the door behind him.
As they reached the outside of the villa, the air was filled with a sudden turbulence. It descended from the sky, leaving a fiery trail. Moments later came the first explosions from the far side of the camp. The air strike had begun.
Running for their lives, they reached a wadi and plunged down it side, carrying cascades of loose sand and scree with them. By the time they reached the bottom of the ravine, they were half buried. All around them, the earth heaved and split, and orange tongues of flame destroyed the darkness. The first of the bombers passed only feet overhead, the wind from their passage kicking up even more sand.
In the wadi, time lost all meaning as the terrible bombardment lashed everything in its path, tearing away the sand around the bunkers like a living monster.
The villa exploded in a great cloud of smoke. Behind it, the bunker housing the studio and lab erupted in a fireball which consumed the Voice Throw console and the freezer chest from which Faruk Kadumi had first removed the bottles of Anthrax-B-C.
Cluster bombs turned the parade ground into thousands of little craters. Scores of recruits and their instructors were pitched, lifeless, into them as they tried to run for the safety of the desert.
In two minutes --- all it had taken for the air strike to complete its work --- the great raging from the sky passed. For a few moments, there was only the sound of flames. Then through their glow came the steady chatter of helicopters.
In the wadi, Chernow and his team dusted off debris. Then they scrambled back up the side of the ravine.
The choppers were coming in low over the desert and even before they landed, commandos were leaping out and deploying. The air filled with the crackle of small-arms fire.
Suddenly, from behind an outcrop of rock to the left of the wadi, came the deeper chatter of a heavy machine gun. Around the helicopters, men began to fall. Others remained motionless.
Chernow ran forward in a half-crouch. Tyreen and Shema wriggled alongside. Wolfie and Michelle crawled behind. As Chernow reached for his night-vision scope, Tyreen brought her Uzi to her shoulder. While her night vision wasn't up to that of an Arion Prime, there was more than enough light from the burning villa for her to make out her targets.
Tyreen's machine gun delivered a withering fire across the parade ground. Chernow opened up about two seconds later. Wolfie and Michelle immediately followed suit, firing on either side of them. Cries for medics began to mingle with the sounds of battle.
Lowering his Uzi, Chernow looked around. "I need a radioman," he said.
"I'll go..." began Michelle, lowering her Uzi and starting to rise.
Shema thrust her down. "I know this ground better!" She was up and running before anyone could stop her.
Lying beside Chernow, Tyreen fired a covering burst and then set aside her Uzi. Removing a grenade from her pouch, she pulled the pin and then let fly.
No man on Earth could have thrown a grenade as far as the Arion did. But it still wasn't far enough, impacting on the front side of a dune. It kicked up a fountain of sand but otherwise caused no other damage.
Tyreen already had a second grenade in her hand. Pulling the pin, she threw it. This one went over the dune and exploded on the other side.
Machine gun fire whizzed over her head, forcing her to hug the ground, before she could throw any more.
"A little further to the right," said Chernow, lifting his face from the sand.
Removing another grenade from her pouch, she pulled the pin and let it fly. Two more grenades followed in quick succession, each one a little to the right of the previous one.
But as far as she could throw a grenade, she was only one person. There was only so much she could do by herself, especially against machine guns that outranged her. She and Jacob threw themselves in opposite directions as a row of machine gun bullets stitched its way toward them. Cursing under her breath, she tried to dig herself into the hard-packed sand.
Coming back up for air, she looked around for the source of the enemy fire. Spotting one, she launched another grenade in that general direction. An answering burst of machine gun fire forced her to hug the ground again.
The noise of battle had deepened by the time Shema returned with a commando, a field radio pack set on his back.
"Get me Major Nagier!" ordered Chernow.
The firing was intensifying as the radioman handed Chernow the mike.
"Danny, we're behind the villa. Get your chopper over here. Scramble the others to take out those machine guns!"
"Roger," crackled Nagier's acknowledgment through the speaker.
The helicopters whirled into the air, then swept toward the machine guns and fired their missiles. The rock outcrop disappeared in a shower of splinters. Moments later, the heavy machine guns stopped firing.
With the glare from the burning villa as a beacon, Nagier's helicopters swept low and hovered close to where Chernow's team waited. Nagier helped pull them on board, then the chopper pulled away and clattered over the battlefield.
While Tyreen lay huddled on the sand lobbing grenades at the Feydeheen, the other Arion had not been idle. Going in with one of the assault teams, Marlen led the way through the perimeter.
Even though the attack had taken them completely by surprise, the Feydeheen reacted quickly. The commandos had barely crested one berm when a machine gun opened up on them.
While the commandos hit the dirt, Marlen remained on her feet. Her blue eyes sparkled briefly as they tracked the bullets, tracing them to their source. Then her long legs seemed to blur as they propelled her in that direction, otherwise ignoring the hail of lead that would be deadly to any lesser being.
Her speed made her a difficult target to track, especially in the dark. She was at the gun position almost before the crew knew she was coming for them. Half a second later, the two men were in no position to know anything.
Bullets kicked up dirt around her feet as she straightened up. Glancing around, she spotted some men firing from the cover of a berm. She immediately headed for them. More bullets whizzed by her as she ran forward. One struck her on the left side, tearing a ragged hole in her fatigues just below her breast.
It didn't slow her down at all.
Two more bullets struck her right thigh as she reached the berm. Ignoring the tickles, she leaped over the berm. She landed in the midst of about half a dozen Feydeheen.
One foot actually came down on a man's shoulder, driving him down to the ground. His hands instinctively clasped around her booted foot even as a scream of pain was torn from his lips. She barely spared him a glance as she pivoted on that foot to delivering the coup de grâce, grinding his chest to a bloody pulp.
Two of the nearest men grabbed her arms. Twisting her arms, she reversed the hold, grabbing their wrists. A sweep of her arms in front of her brought the two heads together with a sickening CRUNCH. Still keeping her grip on the wrists, she swept her arms outward. The remaining Feydeheen in this small group went down, scythed down by the nearly headless bodies.
Releasing her grip, she let the two improvised clubs drop to the ground and started to walk away. None of these men would be walking away from anything again.
Looking around, Marlen tried to find Tyreen and her party. Before she could do so, she was interrupted by more gunfire, the rounds from a concealed Kalashnikov whizzing past her.
Her blue eyes sparkled as she brought her superhumanly sharp vision into play. This time, it was a lone gunman, firing from a prone position about forty yards away. Jogging toward him, she covered the distance in under three seconds.
Wrenching the Kalashnikov from his grasp, her one-handed grip nearly cut the weapon in half before she tossed it away. Her other hand made short work of its former owner.
This was more to Marlen's style. While the Beta seemed to enjoy lurking in the shadows, she preferred direct physical action. Even though she'd been trained as a communications officer rather than as a Warrior Prime, Marlen was still by far the best fighter on the planet.
Her musing was interrupted as another Kalashnikov opened up, this one on full automatic. This gunner also had better aim than the previous one, the burst catching Marlen full in her chest. She paused as the burst stitched a neat row of holes across the front of her fatigues. It wasn't that the bullets had caused her any pain --- let alone causing any injury. Rather, it was the pleasant feeling of the sharp impacts against her sensitive flesh.
Remaining in place, she brought her left hand up to her chest, cupping herself through her Arion uniform and the tattered fatigues. Given the distance and the lack of light, none of the Feydeheen could see that her slender fingers were dimpling her firm breasts more than their bullets had. Her eyes closed.
A grenade went off practically at her feet, further shredding her fatigue trousers and showering her with sand even as it rocked her back on her heels. Even though the explosion did nothing to hurt her, it did serve to bring her mind back to the task at hand. Opening her eyes, she looked around.
Another grenade was flying toward her. Her long legs pumping powerfully, she moved toward it. Catching it on the fly, she continued running in the direction from which it had come.
The thrower's eyes opened wide with fear when he saw her standing over him with the unexploded grenade still in her hand.
Bending over and reaching down with her other hand, she roughly yanked him to his feet. And beyond, holding him with his feet about six inches from the ground. She smiled up at him in mock reassurance.
She held on tightly to the guy's collar as his two hands came up to try and pry open her grip. Of course, his efforts had absolutely no effect on the grip of the Arion Prime, but she did enjoy seeing him try. She smiled at him again, but his only response was to snarl something in Arabic through his clenched teeth. Keeping him in place suspended by her slender fingers, she moved her other hand in between their bodies. As that other hand was still holding a grenade, the new wave of fear that washed over his face was understandable, giving her another thrill. They both knew what was going to happen.
Although her fist absorbed much of the blast, quite a bit of shrapnel did manage to escape through her fingers. Some of it hit her --- one chunk in the face and another chunk glanced off the outside of her right breast, tearing another hole in her fatigues before bouncing off. A third, much smaller chunk of debris tore right through the man's neck, instantly stopping his struggles. She dropped his corpse and the mangled bits of exploded grenade onto the ground, noticing that there wasn't even so much as a tiny bruise on the palm that had contained vastly more shrapnel and blast than it had taken to kill the Terran.
She looked around to see two more Feydeheen lying on the ground to her right. She took a step toward them before realizing that they were both dead, apparently having been killed in the same grenade blast that had sped their colleague to paradise.
Marlen had seen the results of the hotel bombings on television. Even though an Arion, she abhorred the ruthless killing of innocents. But these Feydeheen were far from innocent. She was determined that these people not get another chance to kill any more people. Sparing the corpses at her feet a final glance, she headed toward the sound of the nearest gunfire.
Cresting a berm, she saw two Feydeheen manning a machine gun. They were unaware of her presence until she was suddenly among them, tearing the machine gun loose from its mount. They just barely had time to register their shock at the sight of the woman bending the hot barrel into uselessness before she swung the heavy mass of metal like a golf club, nearly decapitating them both with a single swing.
Time and again, the Feydeheen broke and scattered under the withering fire of the commandos, who moved steadily through the darkness in a merciless show of force. Here and there, pockets of resistance were reduced by overwhelming firepower --- or by the onslaught of the lone unarmed Arion Prime. It made no difference --- no one was taking any prisoners.
From the helicopter, Chernow swept the area with his night-vision field glasses. He spotted a bunker built into the side of a dune at the far side of the parade ground, which appeared untouched. He handed Shema the glasses. "What's in there?"
Shema shook her head, handing back the glasses. "I don't know. It must be new."
Chernow turned to Nagier. "Get your pilot to drop a candle."
The helicopter climbed swiftly to three thousand feet, then released a 750,000 candlepower parachute flare. Sky and earth were lit by a dazzling eerie pink light as the helicopter swooped down toward the bunker and landed beside a squad of commandos.
The squad leader came forward. "Looks like a clean sweep," he reported. "But no sign of Faruk Kadumi or Raza."
"I know it," said Chernow shortly. "Get your men and come with me." Tyreen and the squad followed.
The parachute flare was fading but Chernow saw that the dune rose in a crescent shape to a knife-edged ridge at least a hundred feet above the steel door to the bunker. Nothing less than a nuclear bomb could have penetrated such a barrier.
The firing became more sporadic as they ran to the door. It was secured by a padlock and chain.
Chernow was about to call for some bolt-cutters when something better presented itself, pushing its way past him. The remains of her black fatigues were hanging in tatters. Red showed underneath, but not the red of blood. Not her blood, at least.
Reaching out, she took hold of the chain on either side of the padlock and pulled. There was a shriek of tortured metal as Marlen's Arion muscles once again proved themselves to be stronger than mere hardened steel. Broken links fell to the ground on either side of her.
Tossing aside the broken chain, she pulled the door open and stepped aside.
Someone, he didn't see who, pressed a flashlight into Chernow's hand. He thumbed it on and shone it into the interior.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd around the door. Chernow stood transfixed by what he saw.
There were row upon row of shelves stacked from floor to ceiling with explosives, fuses and casings, cases of Semtex and gelignite, drums of ammonium nitrate and black powder, boxes filled with concussive detonators used to trigger charges electronically, pressure release detonators that exploded when a predetermined amount of force was placed on them, bottles of prussic acid used in delay fuses. It was a veritable bombmaker's paradise.
Chernow turned to a man behind him. "Get the napalm and a time fuse."
Word was passed, and three men emerged from the helicopter, two of them carrying a small drum between them, and headed in their direction.
Quickly jogging out to meet them, Marlen reached out with one hand. Taking the drum from the two men, she easily hoisted it to her shoulder. Turning around, she jogged back to the bunker, the large drum on her shoulder slowing her down no more than a light sweater would have slowed down a Terran. Sprinting, the third man almost kept up with her as he carried the time fuse. He arrived ten seconds after the Prime, completely out of breath, and passed the fuse to Tyreen's waiting hands.
"Get everybody airborne," Chernow ordered Nagier, and the major led his commandos at a trot toward the helicopters parked in the center of the parade ground. Marlen started to carry the napalm inside.
There was a sudden movement in the scrub to one side of the dune. Chernow whirled. In the torchlight, he saw a number of Arab women and children rise and run in panic.
"Check the area," he ordered Wolfie, Michelle, and Shema. "Get them out of here."
He turned to Tyreen. "A ten-minute setting should be fine."
Tyreen clamped the time fuse clock to the drum, and together with Marlen carried it into the bunker. When Tyreen had set the clock, they ran back to the helicopter. Wolfie, Michelle, and Shema were already squashed among the commandos when they clambered on board.
"You did well," said Chernow.
Several of the commandos nodded tiredly as he picked his way up to the flight deck. As they lifted off, Chernow called each of the other choppers on the radio to inquire about casualties.
There were three dead commandos, eleven wounded, five of them seriously. It could have been worse.
"Fifteen seconds," called Tyreen from the cabin.
"Everybody brace yourself," ordered Chernow.
Moments later, a pinprick of purplish-red light exploded to a glowing fireball hundreds of feet wide over the site of Raza's camp. The intensity of the light was so bright it lit up the inside of the chopper with the brightness of the sun.
No one spoke.
Chernow could taste the brilliance of that light; it tasted like lead.
The shock wave from compressed air rocked the helicopter, bounced it upward and then plunged it toward the ground. As quickly as it had arrived, the shock wave passed. The helicopter was back in calm air.
There was little conversation in the cabin. Even though they had destroyed the camp, they had failed to find Faruk Kadumi. Or Khalil Raza. And Tyreen could feel Shema's sadness at the loss of her sister.
When, an hour later, they landed on the deck of the Independence, the sky over Libya still glowed red. The glow remained even as Chernow and his team stepped from the Jet-Ranger at Luqa airport to transfer to the Concorde. Moments later, a second helicopter landed with Nagier and a platoon of his commandos. Carrying the bags with a change of clothes and their weapons, they too hurried to board the plane.
As the Concorde took off, the fiery glow to the south finally merged with the dawn of a new day.