The Fourth War (3 page)

Colonel Bradley watched as the young girl leaned forward, lifting onto her toes to whisper something into Peter's ear. He heard the sound of her voice, but could not make out the words. Peter punched the pause button, and the small girl's face froze on the screen; her eyes closed, her hair back, her cheeks glistening from unseen tears. Peter turned to Bradley, his face ashen. He started to speak, then clenched his fist as he thought.

Bradley waited, then demanded, “What did she say!”

Peter swallowed, looked away, then turned back to his friend. “She is beautiful,” he answered.

“What!” Bradley cried.

“She said she was beautiful.”

“What are you talking about!”

“My horse!”
Peter replied.

The colonel took a step back. “Dark. Your horse! DARKHORSE is here!” He paused, his face stern, then continued, thinking out loud to himself. “Why else would Donner break his silence after all of these years! Why else would he risk exposing himself? He broke the message into two parts; one verbal, one code. Simple. Effective. Yes, Darkhorse is here.”

Peter thought of the young girl and the words she had said.
“The messages have been delivered. Teacher, there is nothing more.”

“How did we miss this?” he muttered in disgust and fear. “How could we not have seen it coming somehow?”

The colonel only nodded as Peter stared at the floor. “Can you say Apocalypse?” he muttered.

He looked up at Bradley, but the colonel was already on the phone. “I need a secure line to D.C.,” he told the Israeli communications officer on the other end of the line. He paused as he listened, then gave a 212 area code. While he waited for the secure communications link to go through, as he waited for the Israeli and U.S. satellites to authenticate to each other, he motioned to Peter, waving desperately with his hand. “Get someone from tactics down here. Captain Stein, he's the best. I think he's upstairs, get him in here now. Tell him I want an overfeed to our Killbird. We'll need access through NRO, but I'll work that from here.”

Peter didn't move until Bradley pushed him away with a brush of his hand. “
Go!
I want to see this. We'll have to monitor from here!”

Peter turned and moved quickly, heading for the back door.

Bradley gripped the phone tightly, his knuckles turning white. Fifteen seconds later the CIA director of operations picked up the phone. The colonel began to explain, his voice tight and quick. The director listened carefully from the other side of the world. The two men began to plot, mapping out a reaction plan.

But it was already too late. The wheels had started turning, though they didn't know why or where. If they had known even a few days, even a few hours before, they might have been able to act.

But all they could do now was watch. It was beyond their control.

As United States Air Force Col. Shane “Clipper” Bradley spoke on the phone, three thousand miles to the east, a brilliant and hateful plan was put into place.

Rawalpindi Air Force Base
Islamabad, Pakistan

The sun had just set, an orange circle on the smoky horizon, and the sky was cloudless yet brown from the dust that was blown up by the wind. A storm was brewing in the north, over the Himalayan range, but here, on the plain, on the dry river basin, it hadn't rained in four months and the air was gritty and arid. The days were growing short as winter came on, and with the smoke hanging low like a dense, ugly fog, darkness came quickly to the mountains of Northern Pakistan. As the sun set, the sky turned from pink to deep purple, and finally to black.

The two F-16s sat on the end of the runway, their engines at idle, their canopies down. The runway loomed before them, a long ribbon of black outlined by the blue runway lights. The cement strip crested in a long, gentle slope, then fell away a little over a mile ahead. The airport was quiet. All the other Pakistani fighters, few that there were, had been bedded down in their cement bunkers on the south end of the field, and the choppers had already taken off for the night. The radios were silent except for an occasional hiss of light static.

The F-16s sat in an echelon position, the number-two aircraft twenty feet behind the leader and off to the side. A small star and crescent moon, the traditional symbols of Islam, were painted on each tailfin in green and white. The fighters were the new D models, recent deliveries from the United States, just one of the payoffs for Pakistan's help in the war. With upgraded avionics, APG-68 radar, and the more powerful Pratt and Whitney 200 power plants, the fighters were the best aircraft in the Pakistani air force. Their engines screamed together in an ear-piercing whine as the intakes sucked in and compressed the dry, gritty air. Occasional vortexes of swirling dust and dead leaves formed several feet in front of the engines, for the runways were unswept and in general disrepair. In contrast to their stark surroundings, the fighters looked wonderfully new, with fresh paint, virgin tires, and spotless canopies.

Inside the cockpit of the lead aircraft, a young flight commander with a salt-and-pepper beard and deep, angry eyes pulled his oxygen mask up to his face and snapped it into position. He glanced over his left shoulder, giving his wingman a final inspection, ensuring his weapons had been armed and he was ready to go. The wingman nodded and the commander replied with a quick wave. The flight leader turned back toward the runway, adjusted himself in the seat, then spoke confidently into the microphone embedded in his mask. “Tower, Bengal two-one, ready for takeoff.” The pilot spoke in his native Urdu, which was against the coalition rules. With U.S. flight supervisors monitoring airfield operations, all the flight crews were supposed to communicate in English, the internationally accepted language of air-traffic control. Most of the Pakistani pilots complied with this rule, but the commander did not. To him, the Americans were un-invited intruders, rude and arrogant, and he figured they could learn Urdu if they wanted to understand what he said.

After a moment's pause, the tower controller replied, “Bengal, stand by.” The controller spoke in English and the pilot bristled in his seat. What a pitiful language, like the chatter of little girls. He glanced at the clock on his cockpit display. Forty seconds until takeoff. He swore anxiously.

Waiting for clearance, he pressed on his brake pedals and brought his engine up to 85 percent power. The aircraft shuddered below him, straining to move forward as the front strut compressed against the force of the brakes. He watched as his wingman also brought his power up. His engine-exhaust nozzles closed, indicating the second aircraft was near the afterburner range and a beautiful orange and blue flame began to glow in the afterburner cans. The pilot waited impatiently, his breath sounding in his mask. Ten seconds later, the tower controller finally came back, “Bengal, cleared for takeoff. Good hunting tonight.”

Without acknowledging the controller, the pilot pushed his throttle to full military power. His engine accelerated to 100-percent RPM in less than two seconds. As the engine screamed behind him, the fighter began to inch forward and the pilot pressed more firmly against his brakes; one final check of his instruments and navigation displays, then he released his brakes. The fighter almost jumped forward, pushing the pilot back in his seat. He jammed the throttle forward to the afterburner range and a bright blue and yellow flame shot from the back of his engine. The two Falcons raced together. A thousand feet down the runway they passed through one hundred and twenty knots. Stealing a look to his side, the commander saw he was moving forward of his wingman and cracked his throttle just a bit so the younger pilot could more easily stay in position.

As his fighter accelerated, it bounced across the cuts in the pavement, for it was heavy with weapons and fully loaded with fuel. An AIM-9 Sidewinder missile was mounted on the tips of both wings. Further in were an assortment of other air-to-air and air-to-ground weapons—two AMRAAMs, the most lethal air-to-air missile in the world, and four GBU-15 laser-guided bombs.

Pakistani Presidential Aircraft (Steal One)
Over Western Pakistan

As the two fighters lifted into the air, several hundred miles to the west the president of Pakistan, a four-star army general, leaned against the leather seat of his personal aircraft, an old Boeing 727 built in 1962. He looked at the landscape below as the aircraft flew toward the night, evening deepening quickly from dusk into gloom. He was tired and angry. And frustrated with himself. His mood, like the night, darkened as the aircraft flew east.

The president was tired of this military campaign—this war of revenge that never seemed to end. He was tired of the situation the United States had placed him in, a dark and dangerous situation that might lead to civil war.

The Pakistani president swore to himself.

He had to extricate himself from the Americans before they bled him to death.

The president was returning from a meeting with the American secretary of defense, a meeting in which the American spent most of his time making more demands of him. Impossible demands. More pieces of broken glass added to the box.

After the fall of the Taliban the enemies of the West had taken refuge in Pakistan, where they concentrated on rebuilding their forces and strengthening their numbers, seeking to reestablish themselves while hiding in the enemy's backyard. Forging ties with Lashkar-e Tayyiba and the Harkat-ul-Mujahideen, two of the most violent and militant groups in all of Pakistan, the Taliban militants had reestablished themselves. Different people, same caves. Not much had changed. In response, the Americans had been pushing for more access to the Pakistani bases. Worse, they demanded that the Pakistani president provide more patrols in the mountains, more control over his people and less trouble from them. Most difficult, they wanted more intelligence on emerging fundamentalist factions.

But with each new demand, the Pakistani president was weakened at home. His generals weren't happy, and he was losing his troops. Officers were being assassinated along the front lines. And the Taliban, having come home to roost in the house in which they were born, were now gaining strength along his western front, putting him in the same position as the Afghanis before. There were ceaseless rumors that a coup was but a few days away.

If there was one thing he had learned, it was this: His friends weren't always real, but his enemies were.

It was time to sort them out.

He cursed again to himself. He hated the Americans. He hated the Taliban. He hated his ministers, who had proven disloyal to him, and his army for being slow to defend. He hated his brother, his army chief of staff, who was sleeping with his mistress to extract information from her. He hated the mullas because they hated him. He hated the Saudi sheiks for their money and power, rich and arrogant men who were waiting for him to fall. Like vultures they circled, smelling his blood.

“Qwidla e' hashne,”
he muttered in frustration and fear. “I'm losing control. And those fools in the West, they think this is
over!
Those idiots actually think they have won! Fools. If they only
knew
. This is just beginning. It is just getting underway.”

Yes, it was just beginning.

And it was time to get out of the box. Time to extract himself from the battle. Time to take some control.

He pushed against his seat and frowned as he settled on his plan. It was ugly. It was brilliant. And it had to be done. He had a day, maybe two, before he lost all control. It was just enough time. But he knew what to do.

Shin Bet Auxiliary Outpost
Twelve Miles South of Tel Aviv

Peter ran into the command center with a heavily mustached Israeli captain in tow. Three other Israeli officers followed after, then a one-star general, his eyes piercing and bright, his walk intent, his shoulders square, his face defiant and proud. He moved into the control room and positioned himself behind the central desk, where he stood, his arms crossed, the decision maker in the crowd. The American colonel glanced at the general and hung up the phone. Walking forward, he announced, “I need you to synch up a streaming download to our KH-21 satellite.”

The general's eyes burned. “The KH-21?” he repeated in disbelief.

Bradley hesitated, then nodded. The KH-21 Killbird was far and away the most sophisticated reconnaissance satellite ever built. To suggest allowing access to the satellite through an Israeli control room was more than remarkable, it had never been considered, let alone done before. Not in almost fifty years of space-based reconnaissance had the United States allowed any ally to data-link to their download.

“You are going to allow us to access the download from your Killbird?” the general repeated with almost a smirk.

“Once, and for a short time, yes sir, I am.”

“And you have authority to?”

“Authority will be coming.”

The general hesitated. Naturally suspicious, he started to think. “We'll need to know frequencies and access codes,” he said.

“General, you're going to need
much
more than that. The security around the Killbird isn't protected by frequency hopping and mere access codes. So I will need complete access to your remote retrieval program to synch our bird up to your system here.”

“
You
want access to
our
system?”

“Yes sir. And now. It's the only way we will allow you to synch to our bird.”

“It's not going to happen. No way I turn over
our
access codes!”

The colonel took a quick step to his host. “General, think! What is the tradeoff here!? I am prepared to allow you access to our satellite, the most highly classified piece of American reconnaissance equipment ever built, and you're worried about sharing your ground-based access codes. It's like I'm offering my daughter in exchange for your dog.”

Still, the general hesitated and a long silence filled the control room. Peter felt himself tighten, his hands pulling into fists at his side. Did this screwball of a one-star actually believe he could tell them no!? Didn't he know who they were, who they represented here!? Didn't he know what was a stake? Did he have any idea at all?

No, of course he didn't.

There was no way he could know.

Bradley took a step forward and lowered his voice. Protocol was important, and the general was his host. The last thing wanted was to embarrass him in front of his men, but they didn't have time, and he would not screw around. “General, I don't think you understand,” he said in an authoritive voice. “I
will
have access to our Killbird, and I
will
have it now. And the only way I can do that is through your system here. Now we can do this between you and me, or we can do it some way else. Either way, you will give me access to your system so I can synch up our Killbird satellite.”

The general turned away angrily. He would not be bullied like this.

Colonel Bradley leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “General, let me tell you what's at stake here.”

Bradley started talking. The Israeli general's face turned gray with fear. “I'll have to get authorization,” he said when Bradley was through.

“Do what you have to to get me your access codes.”

The general grunted and turned away, picking up the nearest phone.

Rawalpindi Air Force Base
Islamabad, Pakistan

The two Pakistani F-16s lifted off and into the sky, their dull gray paint merging into the darkness, causing them to disappear before reaching three hundred feet. As the lead fighter climbed away from the runway, the second aircraft moved into position three feet off his leader's wing.

Pulling his throttle out of the afterburner range, the commander raised his gear handle and retracted the flaps. The gear pulled into the belly of the jet with a solid
thunk,
a firm snap in the airframe he could feel through his seat. Using his Heads-Up Display as his primary flight instrument, the pilot pulled the nose up into a ten-degree climb as the aircraft accelerated to 350 knots. “Bengal, go button five,” the wing commander said into his oxygen mask.

“Two, button five,” the other pilot quickly replied.

The commander reached down and changed the radio frequency on his side-console radio controller. “Islamabad departure, Bengal is with you, climbing through eight thousand, five hundred for eighteen thousand feet.”

“Roger, Bengal. Confirm flight of two.”

“Affirm. Flight of two. Loaded with air and mud.”

“Bengal, say destination.”

“Bengal looking for Kama.”

The controller studied his radar display, searching for the flight of Falcons. The skies were nearly empty. He didn't have the fighters on his radar yet. “Bengal, negative radar contact,” he instructed, “Squawk four-one-one-three. Climb and maintain eighteen thousand. Avoid whiskey approach route. Advise when you are ready to be turned over to the forward controller.”