The Fourth War (5 page)

Pakistani Presidential Aircraft
Twenty-three Thousand Feet over Western Pakistan

The 727 was fifty miles from Islamabad and westbound, setting up for its initial approach into the airport. In front of the aircraft, the city lights burned through the low fog of dust, illuminating the layer like a huge saucer of dirty yellow light. Inside the cockpit, the flight crew was anxious to get on the ground. The flight from Spain had taken almost seven hours and required the crew to navigate some of the most challenging airspace in the world; from the congested straits of the Mediterranean Sea, to overflights of Syria, Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan.

As they approached home base, the aircraft commander switched on his VOR, the antiquated navigational equipment used in this part of the world. The VOR would help the crew to safely navigate the mountainous terrain that surrounded Islamabad. Pressing his radio switch, the pilot announced, “Islamabad Center, Steal One is fifty miles southwest at one nine thousand feet, looking for direct to the field, and lower when able.”

“Roger, Steal One, descend and maintain flight level one-seven thousand. Direct to the field. Report the initial approach fix.”

The pilot lowered the nose and brought back the power. The aircraft began a slow and gentle descent.

“Steal will be looking for the visual. Will report at Shamir.”

“Roger, Shamir. Make your best time.”

The presidential pilot paused, immediately knowing that something was wrong. The air traffic controller, any controller, didn't tell Steal One what to do. Steal was free to make his best time or wander around in the night. They could fly any route, anywhere, and at any altitude. It was entirely up to them. Steal One was in charge. So the controller's instructions made the pilot stiffen in his seat. “Islamabad, say status,” he asked.

“We are operating normal status, Steal. But we lost a flight of F-16 Bengals a few minutes ago. They were enroute to Kama. It appears there was a midair collision.”

The pilot stiffened again, then motioned to the copilot, who pressed a tiny red button on the console near his knee. Immediately, a security agent appeared at the cockpit door, a member of the SAK, or Special Presidential Police, the bodyguards and soldiers sworn to protect the president of Pakistan.

The security agent leaned into the cockpit.
“Ashik, ne 'Omor?” What do you have?

The pilot held up his hand, listening on his radio headset, then turned to the agent. “The Pakistani air force lost a couple fighters tonight. There was a midair collision just a few minutes ago.”

“Location?”

“North of the field, maybe ninety miles from here.”

“And?”

“That's all I have. Control is still calling operations normal.”

The agent frowned and swore at the captain. “What kind of aircraft were involved in the midair collision?”

“Two F-16 fighters. But—”

“Were they armed?”

“I don't know.” The pilot paused and then said, “Yes, of course, they had to be armed, they were heading for Kama.”

“Both aircraft go down?”

“We don't know, but there is no reason to believe—”

“Fool!” the agent sneered. “Of course there is reason. Now get this jet on the ground!” He waved a threatening finger. “And tell the controllers to step up security. And keep our pathway clear!”

The security chief turned and stomped from the cockpit, determined but unsure of what he should do. Making his way to the back of the cabin, to his SAK brothers, he approached his commander and whispered in his ear.

 

Staying low, near the ground, following the contours of the earth, the F-16 pilot studied his multifunction display. He tuned the radar out to eighty miles, throwing out a beam of energy to search the skies to the west, and the target appeared suddenly on his color display. It lumbered toward him, descending through eighteen thousand feet, tracking a straight course, oblivious to the danger ahead. The pilot armed up his AMRAAM missiles, then turned his fighter south and pushed up the power. The Pakistani president's 727 passed through his three o'clock position, forty miles away. The F-16 pilot jerked on his stick, barely pulling his aircraft over a hill. His flying had turned sloppy and he swore to himself. He straightened up in his seat, and took a deep breath, then pulled the fighter around, banking into a tight right-hand turn. He stared through his HUD to track the horizon, careful to keep from flying into the ground. Jerking back, he pulled the nose of his fighter up, climbing into the night. The force of the g's pushed him into his seat, and it only took a few seconds to climb to fourteen thousand feet.

Rolling out, the F-16 was in a textbook position, behind and slightly lower than the target before him. He could fire his missiles at any time.

He leveled the aircraft, but kept the power up, accelerating to close on the presidential aircraft. His hands began to ache, and he relaxed his grip on the stick; he was tight, but that was good, it was the thrill of the hunt. He breathed even more deeply and felt his heart pound in his chest. From the beginning of time, from man's earliest hunt, from the first swing of a club or throw of a stone, the physiological reaction had not changed in the past million years. The killer instinct was internal, a part of the pilot's psyche; it wasn't learned, it wasn't taught, it was just part of who he was. And it was driving him now as he closed on the presidential jet. He pulled up behind it and for the second time that night he heard the gentle growl in his helmet as the radar locked onto the aircraft before him. Less than twenty miles now. Perfect firing range! But he waited, wanting to savor the emotion, the flush in his face and rush in his head, the clarity of thought and the thrill of a kill. It was easy, so easy, but still it was fun.

Fifteen miles behind the target, the presidential aircraft suddenly dropped toward the ground. It accelerated as it dove, jinking and turning violently in the dark.

The pilot smiled and switched his radio frequency to pick up the air traffic controller.

The air-traffic controller was screaming into his radio mike. “Steal,
bandit is at your six o'clock and closing!
” The controller's voice was high and almost laughably hysterical.

The fighter pilot snorted. So his F-16 had finally appeared on the controller's radar display. Surely it was pure panic now inside the control center. He envisioned the chaos. It would have been fun to see.

“Steal,
climb!
” The controller screamed his desperate instructions. The fighter pilot listened a few seconds more. “No—
dive
. Steal,
dive!
No—he's still there! Break right!”

The commander shook his head. Climb, dive, or break, it didn't matter at all. The 727 could stand on its tail and bark like a dog, either way that aircraft was dead! He placed his finger over the trigger, the growl sounding in his ears. He took a breath and fired, blasting two AMRAAMs into the night.

The flash from the missile engines almost burned his eyes. Twin bursts of fire rushed forward, trailing thin lines of white smoke.

“Steal, fox, fox!!”
the radar controller screamed over the radio.

The fighter pilot studied his radar as the target began a frantic series of dives and steep turns. It pulled up and rolled over in a smooth barrel roll and the commander almost laughed. Who did the 727 pilot think he was, a fighter pilot? This guy had some guts.

As the missiles closed in on the target, the ground controller fell silent. It was painfully obvious his president was dead.

The F-16 pilot turned his fighter to the south and headed for the Arabian Sea. He was getting low on fuel and he still had three hundred miles to go. As he rolled into the bank, he saw a quick flash of white and looked over his shoulder to see the huge fireball. He smiled to congratulate himself, then descended again, getting below radar coverage.

 

Twenty-nine minutes later, the pilot crossed the rocky shoreline of the Arabian Sea. He picked up the small ship on his radar display, forty miles from the coastline and due south of Karachi. He did one low pass and saw the flare on the foredeck, which sparked brightly then faded quickly, leaving the ship once again cloaked in darkness. Completing his ejection checklist, he positioned his fighter to pass abeam of the ship, sat straight up in his seat, and pulled on the handles of his ejection seat.

He was in the water less than five minutes before an inflatable skiff maneuvered beside his small raft. Twenty hours later, the F-16 assassin was safely inside a base camp deep in the Saudi Arabian desert.

Shin Bet Auxiliary Outpost
Twelve Miles South of Tel Aviv

The control room had turned chaotic as more and more Israeli intelligence officers filled the room. What had started out with four officers quickly turned into twenty, then thirty, then more, all of them manning their posts, working their intelligence desks. Reports began to fill in, urgent messages from Shin Bet resources throughout the world.

An Israeli communications officer handed Peter a handwritten note. He read it quickly, then moved toward Bradley. “There's been an explosion in central Islamabad,” he said.

Bradley looked over, his brow covered with sweat.

“We've got missiles inbound,” one of the controllers called out. “Steal One is the target! Look out! Oh my….”

A sudden gasp moved through the control room and every eye turned to the tactical display. It only took seconds to watch the Pakistani leader's aircraft go down.

Bradley pulled on Peter's elbow and the two men moved to a corner of the operations center and lowered their voices. Around them, they caught the glancing stares, the looks of fear and uncertainty as the Israeli officers wondered exactly what was going on. The Shin Bet general followed them, joining their circle.

“General, I guess you have some understanding as to what is happening here?” Colonel Bradley said.

“I have my ideas.”

“Perhaps. But have you considered the Pakistani warheads?”

“We consider them all the time.” The general paused. “But we have had your assurance, the word of your president.”

“Yes, we have provided assurances. And that's where we are now. DARKHORSE is the code word signifying a clear and immediate threat to Pakistan's nuclear arsenal. We have known—like you—and we have feared for several years that the Pakistani cache might be vulnerable. A sudden coup, a single death from utter disaster. We can't have these weapons ending up in the wrong hands. So we have been making arrangements in case of such an event.

“You've seen what's happening over there,” Bradley nodded toward the satellite screens. “The attack on the Pakistani president. The explosions through the city. Now, maybe this is something that will sort itself out, maybe this is something we can work our way through; perhaps there are forces behind this we can work with in the future, but I personally doubt it. And this much we know, the Pakistani president is gone. And we won't wait, we
can't
wait, to see who takes control of his country, we won't wait and we
can't
wait to see what happens to his nuclear arsenal. I'm sure you understand the necessity of intercepting those weapons before someone else does.”

The Shin Bet officer nodded gravely. It was just as he thought. And no one in the room was more determined than he. No nation had more to lose; no nation felt this same noose slipping over its heads. Nuclear warheads in the wrong hands meant annihilation. The threat was intolerable.

And this time the Israelis would not go down alone. They were prepared and determined to take their enemies, too. A single nuclear detonation in Israel, and the entire Middle East would explode, from Lebanon to Iran.

The general sucked in a breath, his face turning ashen. “You know what Blackbird is going to say!” he said in a dry voice.

Bradley paused as he consider the hardnosed general who was the head of Shin Bet. General Petate (known as Blackbird to his men) would take the news of the coup in Pakistan like a dose of rat poison. He wouldn't sit around hoping things turned out okay. He would have to take action!

The general took a short step toward Bradley and looked him right in the eye, his face but six inches from the taller man's nose. “Take care of this problem!” he hissed in a gravelly tone. “You know our position. We won't take this lying down.”

Bradley stepped back. “I need your help,” he replied.

“What is it? What can we do?”

“I've got to get back to D.C.,” Bradley said. “Can you get me an escort to the airport where my transport is waiting?”

The general nodded. “Of course. Anything you need.”

 

Bradley nodded, then turned toward Peter. “If I were to get you out to the DARKHORSE camp, would you ride with the special ops guys on the intercept mission? We need to have a set of agency eyes and ears on the ground.”

“How would you propose to get me out there? It's two thousand miles. The team will launch long before I could arrive.”

“The Rangers won't be ready for two or three hours. We can get you there if we have a little help.” Bradley turned to the general. “Can you get this agent to…” He paused and considered before he continued. “We have a covert base camp in western India, along the Pakistan border.”

The general scowled. He had never heard of this base camp. How could Shin Bet not know!? He did the mental math. “I just don't see how.”

“We'll need one of your fighters.”

“It will take time to generate a sortie.”

“Don't give me that. Half of your air force is on alert. I need you to take one of your birds, one of your F-15s, strap on some long-range fuel tanks, and get my guy out to the camp! There's only a small runway, but it's sufficient if your pilot is good. We'll make the overflight clearances. Now, do we have a deal?”