Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (33 page)

The copilot only nodded, ready to panic again. The pilot flew the helicopter like a madman who had been shot in the eyes, jerking it left and then right, rocking her up on her side. The prince saw the ocean rise up to meet them as the pilot rolled the helicopter again. The rotor blades slapped the ocean and the helicopter lurched to the side. The pilot panicked and climbed and the helicopter shuddered toward the night sky.

The prince braced himself, grabbing the top of the pilot’s seats, then looked at the counter-measures display. It was an APG-63 radar. Yes, an F-15. Forty miles behind them. Closing very fast.

His mind raced as he considered their options. They were over the water. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to land. The helicopter’s spinning rotors would bounce back enormous beams of the radar energy to the F-15’s receiver. They had no guns, no weapons, only a few counter-measures. He grimly shook his head. He was a fighter pilot. He had targeted helicopters from an F-15 before. A helicopter, over the water, against an F-15 with its missiles and guns

He swallowed, almost crying.

Abdullah was about to kill him. Then he would kill his son. There would be no freedom for the kingdom. All of his dreams were dead.

The pilot continued flying like a crazy man, breaking right and then left, climbing and descending, trying to break the lock on the radar that was tracking them from behind. But the helicopter was enormous and no more stealthy than a Mack truck. The missiles couldn’t miss it. They had maybe a few seconds left to live.

Saud’s brain slowed down as a sudden calm filled his mind.

He was going to die. He knew that already. But he might yet save his last son,
if
he could just reach his friend.

He turned to the panicked copilot and tore the radio headset from off his head. “Tune up the VHF,” he screamed.

The copilot stared at him blankly, his eyes glazed with fear. “The VHF frequency?” he repeated.

“Give me control of the VHF radio!” the prince cried again.

* * *

The Saudi fighter pilot checked his airspeed and altitude. Five-eighty knots. Fourteen thousand feet. The target was forty-one miles in front of him, almost straight off the nose. He watched as it rolled left and then right, a lumbering giant in its final dance of death. As if any of it mattered! It could rock, it could roll, it could climb or descend—his radar couldn’t miss it now that it was locked on. He lifted his eyes and scanned the darkness. Searching the open ocean, he saw a tiny trail of white light burning across the water. He squinted, saw another trail, then laughed to himself. The idiot pilot was shooting flares! He smiled under his mask. A real genius! He hadn’t even fired his missiles. It was pure panic down there.

Then he startled, his mind racing.

What kind of helicopter carried anti-missile flares?

His heart stopped, his mouth growing dry.

No civilian helicopters would carry defensive systems . . . maybe a government aircraft . . . no, none of them . . . except for maybe the royal family!

He almost threw up in his oxygen mask.

He was about to shoot a member of the royal family!

He didn’t know what to do!

The firing computer continued to growl in his helmet. He was in firing range. The system was armed and ready. Radar locked. Ready to fire.

Am I about to shoot a member of the royal family?

Then Prince al-Rahman’s words shot like electricity through his mind, “
Shoot down the helicopter or I will kill you myself.
”

He wondered for half a second, then pushed the thought from his head. Royal family? Maybe it was. But what did it matter? His instructions were clear. If he failed, Abdullah would kill him. He didn’t have any choice.

“
Insha’allal
,” he whispered as he decided what to do.

He checked the distance and radar lock, then moved his left hand across the throttles, flipped off the safe switch and fired two advanced medium-range air-to-air missiles into the night air. The missile engines fired together in a trail of white smoke and flame and accelerated before him, then began to track downward toward the target.

* * *

The helicopter copilot reached for the radio console and flipped the selector to manual. The crown prince leaned over the center console and changed the frequency to 122.5 MHz, which is the emergency channel. Every U.S. aircraft in the air was required to monitor this frequency. The prince pulled on the headset and jerked the microphone to his lips.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he said into the mike. “This is an emergency call for any U.S. aircraft. Mayday, Mayday, does anyone read?”

The prince released his broadcast button and listened, but the radio was silent. “Mayday, Mayday,” he repeated. “Any U.S. aircraft, this is an emergency!”

The helicopter pilot cried out and pointed toward the threat display. Two missiles had been fired and were tracking them. Twenty miles and closing. The pilot screamed in panic. He rolled the helicopter and climbed then threw the nose toward the ocean again. The copilot reached up and released another five bundles of burning flares. The missiles continued tracking toward the helicopter, accelerating as they descended through the night air. The pilot racked the helicopter into a tight left turn, pulling back toward the missiles, trying to throw them off his tail. The copilot saw the missiles turn toward them, then slowly bowed his head.

Prince Saud watched the missiles track toward him. In seconds they would strike. Yet he felt no panic. No fear. His mind was peaceful and calm. He was empty as a basket that had been turned upside down, the emotion having been drained from his body and his soul. He thought of Tala and his children. He believed they were waiting, and he was ready to go to them now. He knew it was over, but he was prepared to die. He’d done everything he could to win the battle. Now the war was left to someone else.

Then he thought of his son and the last thing he could do. He pressed the transmit button and started broadcasting again.

“Mayday, Mayday,” he said over the radio. “This is an emergency call to any U.S. aircraft in the region. This is Saudi Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal with an emergency message for Major General Neil Brighton of the national security staff. Neil, my friend, all of my family is dead. I have one son who is living and you must rescue him. The Agha Jari Deh Valley . . . you will find him there. He is there with my . . . .”

The missile hit the helicopter in the left engine bay. Prince Saud felt the fire and heat but only half a second of burning pain.

* * *

The F-15 pilot saw the explosion lighting up the night sky, a yellow fireball with a billowing white and black core. He saw the smoke rising as the scattered pieces of the helicopter began to rain from the sky, pelting the ocean in a hailstorm of smoking metal and burning debris. The fireball disappearing quickly as the pieces fell. Then he smiled, satisfied, and turned his jet back toward his home.

His mission was successful. Looked like he would get his first star.

The hallways of the Pentagon are a wide, windowless and wondrous maze of interconnecting spokes and rings that start at the center courtyard and work their way out from there. They are crowded and dull and brightened only by the colorful assortment of Air Force, Army, Navy and Marines uniforms. The Pentagon has its own Metro station (one of the largest and most crowded in the city) as well as several cafeterias, its own shopping mall, bank and mail delivery operations. The services the Pentagon offers are equal to those of any small city—which, of course, is exactly what it is. More general and flag officers work in the Pentagon than any other single place on earth, most of them housed in the executive hallway along the outermost ring on the northwest side of the Pentagon. The building is always crowded and there is a sense of urgency that simply isn’t replicated in any other government building, with the exception of the White House or perhaps the CIA. Those who walk the Pentagon halls know they are the sword of the nation, the tip of the spear, and they are willing to die for their country and to keep their people free.

Major General Neil Brighton had a small annex office along the outer ring of the Pentagon, one hallway over from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was an understated and private affair, a single room with no reception area, secretary, or staff. A place to think where he came to get away from the ringing phones and constant meetings and appointments that plagued his White House office. Inside the wood-paneled room, he had a small desk set against the back wall where he could turn in his chair and look out a large window onto one of the huge parking lots that surrounded the Pentagon. In the distance, the buildings of Washington, D.C. rose, punctuated by the Washington Monument’s pearly white spire sticking up in the air. Unlike his White House office, which was decorated with pictures of him with two presidents, a vice-president, the secretary of defense, several senators and congressmen and various foreign leaders. The walls of his Pentagon office were decorated with his real love, which certainly wasn’t politics, but fighters and fighting men. There were pictures of him as a lieutenant standing in front of his first F-15, pictures of him flying in formation along the Korean DMZ, over the Egyptian pyramids, and the Brandenburg Gate of the old Berlin Wall. There were pictures of him as a captain and a major, always in olive or desert camouflage flight suits, posing in front of a fighter jet. There were pictures of him with his squadron mates in various locations around the world; deep sea fishing in the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea, riding camels in Iraq, eating sauerkraut at Lelas, and fighting wars in Kuwait, Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan. A stranger could trace the general’s career by looking at the pictures on the wall, from his flying days as a lieutenant to his first staff job at the Pentagon, the wing commander at Langley to another staff job with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was here that the transition to a political animal became complete—where he started having more pictures of him with ambassadors and presidents than military friends.

The general had been back from his trip to Saudi Arabia for less than a day. The sun had set over the Washington, D.C. and the parking lot lights had clicked on. Brighton sat alone in his office and stared out the large window, lost in his thoughts. Then came an urgent knock and his aide pushed back the door. “Sir,” a colonel said as he rushed into the room.

Brighton turned wearily. “What you got, Dagger?” he asked.

Colonel “Dagger” Hansen took a quick step toward his desk. “Bad stuff in Saudi.”

Brighton stood immediately. “What is it?” he asked.

“Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal is dead, sir. His helicopter was shot down a few hours ago.”

Brighton’s knees almost buckled and he took a quick breath. He felt like he had been hit in the stomach and he almost grimaced in pain. “Are you certain?” he demanded. “How do you know it was him?”

“We know,” the colonel answered. “And that’s not all, sir. The news gets much worse. Now come, I’ll explain while we walk. The National Security Staff is assembling in the Situation Room and the president wants a briefing in an hour.”

Hansen turned for the door and Brighton followed. The colonel explained what he knew as they jogged down the hall.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Major General Brighton was sitting at the Situation Room conference room table, surrounded by national security staff. He read the transcript of the radio call:

Mayday, Mayday . . . this is an emergency call to any U.S. (UNREADABLE) in the region. This is Saudi Crown Prince Saud bin Faysal with an emergency (UNREADABLE) for Major General Neil Brighton of the (UNREADABLE). Neil, my friend, all (UNREADABLE) . . . I only have one son (SIGNIFICANT UNREADABLE) . . . living? You (UNREADABLE) (rescue/rescued/resist??) him. The Agha Jari Deh Valley. (SIGNIFICANT UNREADABLE) . . . He is there with my . . . .

Brighton checked the time of the transcription, then the time the interception took place. He studied the UNREADABLE portions of the transcript, trying to fill in the blanks, then turned to the communications specialist on the NSC staff. “Who picked up the message?” he asked.

“One of our receiving birds out of Baghdad,” the staff member answered.

“It wasn’t broadcast to any particular receiver?”

“No, sir, it was not. It was a call in the blind. A couple dozen other U.S. aircraft reported hearing the broadcast, including several receivers inside of Saudi Arabia. The reconnaissance aircraft had its recorders activated and was able to get the transmission, but the helicopter was so low it impeded the range of the broadcast. As you can see, there are significant portions that are unreadable.”

“It wasn’t broadcast using Have Quick secure radio?” he asked.

“Negative, sir,” the young lieutenant replied. “No secure means of encryption were employed. Quite the opposite, the radio call was broadcast on the civilian guard frequency. It was the crown prince’s intention to get the message to as many people as he could, hoping it would eventually make its way to you. Clearly, that was his intention. He mentions you by name, that much of the broadcast came through loud and clear.”

“But if he was trying to send me a message, why not use his satellite radio?”

“Time, sir, or lack of it. It takes a couple seconds to synch up to a satellite. And when Prince Saud made this radio call, he was already under attack. It was amazing he had the presence of mind to get this much out. We’ve gone back and looked at some of the reconnaissance information from one of our Looking Glass IIIs. When this radio message was broadcast, the crown prince’s helicopter was deep into evasive maneuvers. Missiles had already been fired. They were six, maybe eight seconds from impact. The broadcast was terminated when the missiles impacted the target.”

Brighton sat back and thought, imagining the chaos in the helicopter in the last seconds of the prince’s life as they tried to evade the inevitable. He considered the courage and calm the prince had displayed. He was a good man. A friend of America. He was going to miss him deeply. The world was not as good without him, as well as much less safe.