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  The female moved closer, her nostril openings dilating as she sniffed his body odor to see if he would be a suitable mate. After a moment, she nodded. "Of course, Navigator," she said, calling him by his official title.

  "And after I eat," the junior officer added, his eyes moving over her body, "perhaps you could stay here a while and I could show you the planets as we pass them."

  Her oral slit curved in a most fetching way, and she lowered her head an inch or two. "Is that all you want of me, Navigator?" she asked coyly.

  Before he could answer, her eyes widened as his genitals changed color and began to respond to her flirting. She gave a low whistle of amusement. "Never mind, Navigator. I can see that is not all you want. I shall hasten on my way to get your food, and I eagerly await what will come next."

  After she left, the junior officer swiveled in his chair and focused his attention on the screen in front of him. He hoped that the evidence of what he was thinking would disappear from his genitals before the captain returned. He would not want the captain to think he wasn't paying attention to his job. But like many species across the vast reaches of space, what his mind thought and what his sex organs decreed were two different things.

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  The moon was a tiny crescent in a cloudless sky as the two Chinooks flew through the blackness. They were painted coal black and were flying without any running lights. In the cargo bays, men dressed all in black with black greasepaint covering their faces sat checking assault rifles, cartridge magazines, grenades, and just about everything else hung, strapped, or fastened to their BDUs. The loud whine of the turbines and the rhythmic whup-whup-whup of the rotor blades prevented talk of any kind.

  Bartholomew Wiley-Smeyth checked his watch for the hundredth time, a knot of nervous acid in his stomach. He knew that no matter how cunning and brave his men were in the upcoming assault, he was going to lose some of them. Most were men he'd trained with for years, and he knew most of their families as well as his own. The loses were going to hurt terribly.

  Bart had worked out a plan whereby the helicopters would split up ten miles short of Riyadh, with the lead chopper heading to the outskirts of the city and the second going on to the oil fields. Even though the oil fields and their plutonium bombs were the prime objective, Bart thought the bombs' detonators would probably not be trusted to field operatives, but would remain in the hands of the terrorists' leaders in the city itself. He couldn't risk

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  a hurried radio transmission from the men guarding the oil fields getting through and the bombs being detonated while his men were among the derricks.

  Bart was going to lead the contingent in the assault on the oil fields while his second officer, Major Hugh Holm-sby, would take his men into the city of Riyadh.

  Holmsby was one of the most dangerous men Bart had ever met. Trained in search-and-destroy tactics, Hugh, it was said, could sneak up and take a quarter off a rattlesnake's head and leave change without the snake ever knowing it had been visited.

  Bart was no slouch at such maneuvers himself. In one of his early training days, he'd been sent into a completely darkened building containing ten men hiding in various rooms. His assignment had been to take each of them out without the others hearing him do it. He'd not only managed to take out all the men, but when his instructors entered the building thirty minutes later, there was no sign of Bart. He'd managed to sneak out of the building under their very noses, and was standing quietly at the back of their group as they searched for him.

  He knew this was going to be even more difficult. He was going to have to lead a group of men over ten miles of desert in almost total darkness, and infiltrate and kill an unknown number of adversaries whose positions and displacements were also unknown to him. Hugh had grinned when told of the mission and said, "It's a cake-walk, Bart old chap."

  Bart knew better.

  The sound of the Chinook's engines changed as the pilot slowed for landing. Flying at only a little over a

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  hundred feet to avoid radar, he wouldn't have to drop too much to let the men out.

  A light on the wall just behind the pilot's compartment changed from red to yellow, and Bart signaled his men with a thumbs-up to tell them to get ready.

  The chopper slowed and dropped, its wheels just inches above the gravel and sand of the desert, and the light went to full green.

  Bart pumped his fist in the air, and twenty-five highly trained SAS

  soldiers rose as one and bailed out the door, immediately forming a perimeter around the Chinook in case of enemy presence.

  Bart turned and gave the pilot a quick salute just before he exited the plane last.

  After the Chinook eased around and headed back the way they'd come, the men gathered around Bart. He quickly checked his Global Positioning Satellite receiver, and noted they had to travel nine miles directly south to get to the outer ring of oil rigs.

  The men spread out in an arrowhead formation, with Bart just behind the point man, and moved off toward their target.

  The men in the other Chinook, led by Hugh Holmsby, were a little ahead of Bart's crew. Hugh's men were already at the outskirts of Riyadh. It was a fairly modern city, but there weren't a lot of streetlights burning and most of the windows in the city were darkened. Muslims didn't go in much for nightlife, and most were in their homes by dusk.

  Hugh's first objective was to find out just which building contained the headquarters for the terrorists. Guessing

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  it would be on the outskirts of the city on the side nearest the oil fields, he began his search there.

  He spread his men out along a perimeter and told them to scan each and every building through their night-scopes. He figured the headquarters would be guarded, both on the ground and on the roof. He also thought the windows would be lighted, with men on radios keeping in touch with their leaders.

  Sergeant Major Thomas Gifford gave a low whistle from off to Hugh's left. Hugh ran over and squatted down next to the man.

  "We got lucky, Major," Gifford said, speaking in a whisper even though no one was nearby. He pointed at a five-story building just ahead of his position. "Check out the roof."

  Hugh fastened his nightscope on the roof, and saw a man leaning against a parapet smoking a cigarette, the glow bright in Hugh's scope. The man had what appeared to be a Kalashnikov assault rifle slung over his back.

  "Bingo," Hugh whispered. "Round up the men, Tommy, we're going in."

  Once the men were reassembled, they all cocked their weapons and made sure extra magazines were readily handy. "From here on in, hand signals only," Hugh whispered.

  When the men spread out and moved toward the building, not a sound could be heard. They moved through the night like ghosts on cats' feet.

  They approached the rear of the building away from the entrances in groups of five men. When they got to within a hundred yards, Hugh waved his hand up and down and they went down on their bellies, crawling the rest of the way.

  Twenty yards from the back wall, Hugh held up his 136

  fist in a signal to stop. Two guards were strolling around the building, talking to each other in low voices as they made their hourly patrol.

  Hugh pulled his assault knife from its scabbard and motioned to Tommy Gifford, who did the same. While the rest of the men held their positions, Hugh and Tommy crawled toward the two guards as silently as snakes on cotton.

  When they were within six feet of the two men, Hugh and Tommy got to their feet and moved in unison. The left arm went around each man's neck to prevent him from calling out, while the right hand drove the blade of the knife up under the rib cage, severing the aorta and spinal cord and causing instant death. The two guards didn't even moan as they went limp in Hugh and Tommy's arms.

  Hugh gently laid his man on the sand and stood up, signaling his men to join him up against the wall of the building.

  He outlined his plan of attack. Two men would scale the side of the building, carrying only a knife and a silenced pistol, to take out the roof guards, while the rest of the men would go in through the front door in a storming action, also using silenced weapons.

  While Jerry Albright and Keith Kilgore moved up the rear wall, Hugh peeked around the corner. A bored guard was standing in the doorway, leaning against the wall, snoring softly. He was asleep on his feet.

  Hugh bared his teeth in a savage grin and moved quickly, his back against the wall to stay out of sight in case the man woke up.

  Just as he got to him, the guard opened his eyes, frightened at the apparition standing in front of him. "Hello," Hugh said as he drove his stiletto into the man's throat.

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  Before the dead man's body hit the ground, the rest of Hugh's force was moving rapidly through the doorway, silenced Uzis at the ready.

  A man carrying a sheaf of papers in his arms stopped on the staircase, and was cut down in a hail of bullets that made no sound louder than a cough.

  The SAS men rushed up the stairs two at a time, the barrels of their weapons moving from side to side in front of them, ready to fire.

  Peeling off by twos into the various rooms of the building, they began to fire at men awakened more by the smell of cordite than the sound of machine guns firing.

  Al Hazmi glanced over his shoulder when he heard a thud from the stairwell. He was standing next to a radio, about to send a report to El Farrar that he'd had no contact with hostiles.

  Frowning, he moved toward the door, and was startled when a black-faced man wearing dark BDUs stepped through the opening. He pointed an Uzi at Hazmi's gut and asked in a conversational tone, "Do you speak English?"

  Hazmi considering lying and saying no, but the man raised the barrel of his gun to point at his face, and he changed his mind. "Yes."

  "Then, step away from the radio and take a seat. My CO will be here in a minute to talk to you."

  Hazmi's eyes moved to the remote control detonator lying on his desk next to the radio handset. He might just have time to press the button before the man could fire.

  The soldier, seeing his eyes shift, grinned and said, "Don't even think about it, Abdul or whatever your name is. I'd cut you in half before you took two steps!"

  Hazmi sighed and sat down in a chair against the wall.

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  He didn't even bother to ask who the men were who were invading his headquarters. He knew they were from Ben Raines, the infidel devil.

  A few minutes later, Hazmi's second in command, Taha al-Alwani, was pushed by Hugh through the door. He had a deep gash on his forehead and was bleeding profusely.

  "Sit over there next to your friend," Hugh said, giving al-Awani a shove.

  "Now, who's in charge here?" Hugh asked.

  Al-Awani and Hazmi glanced at each other, neither saying anything.

  Hugh shook his head, a sad expression on his face. "So, it's going to be that way, is it?" he asked.

  Al-Awani sat up straight in his chair and stuck his chest out. "You will get no information from us, infidel dogs! We are not afraid to become martyrs for our cause."

  Hugh grinned crookedly. "Oh, I'm not about to make martyrs of you, sir,"

  he said in a soft but dangerous voice. "That would be against all rules of warfare."

  Al-Awani allowed himself a small smile, thinking these infidels were so stupid.

  Hugh looked over at Sergeant Major Gifford. "Tommy," he said calmly,

  "kindly put a bullet through that gentleman's right kneecap."

  As Tommy smiled and aimed his pistol at al-Awani, the Arab held out his hands. "But you said . . ."

  "I just said I wouldn't make a martyr out of you, sir. I said nothing about maiming you a little."

  "But I must protest . . ." al-Awani began, sweat appearing on the part of his forehead that wasn't covered with blood.

  Hugh shrugged. "Protest all you want, sir, it will do you no good. After I have the sergeant major shoot out both of your knees, making you a cripple for the rest of

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  your life, I will have him pluck out your eyes and perforate your eardrums. Then we will leave you to crawl around this city on your belly, blind and deaf, with only the ability to scream out your pain for all to hear. I think that will be a suitable lesson for all those who wish to join the terrorist forces, don't you?"

  "But. . . but you can't do that!" al-Awani protested.

  "Shut up, you cowardly dog!" Hazmi ordered. "He is only trying to trick you. He would never dare to do such a thing."

  Hugh looked at Tommy and nodded his head toward Al Hazmi.

  Tommy took dead aim and shot Hazmi in the right knee, blowing half the joint out the back of his leg to splatter against the wall.

  Hazmi screamed, grabbed his ruined leg, and toppled out of his chair onto the floor, where he writhed in pain, moaning and crying.

  When Tommy turned his pistol toward al-Awani, the man held out both hands. "Wait. . . wait! What do you want to know?" he asked as fear-sweat made dark stains on his clothes.

  "That's better," Hugh said. He looked over his shoulder at the soldiers standing behind Tommy. "Get this piece of camel shit out of here," he ordered, indicating the still-crying Hazmi.

  Once Hazmi had been dragged from the room, leaving a trail of scarlet blood on the floor, Hugh pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of al-Awani.

  "Now, my friend, tell me all you know."

  "What is it you wish to know?" al-Awani asked, sleeving sweat off his face with his arm.

  "Who the commanding officers are at the oil fields, what frequency you use to contact them, and if they have

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  the power to explode the plutonium bombs, to start with," Hugh said.

  Al-Awani licked dry lips. "If I give you this information, I will be killed."

  "It's your choice, friend," Hugh said. "Possible death, or sure maiming."

  "All right," al-Awani said. "I'll tell you."

  Hugh smiled. "I thought you might."

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  Bartholomew Wiley-Smeyth led his men through the darkness of the desert night, moving quickly but silently toward the outskirts of the oil fields around Riyadh. Directly behind him and to either side were his top two men. John Davidson and his brother, David, were two of the deadliest killers in his squad. Each had saved Bart's life on more than one occasion, and he relied on them to be his eyes and ears in the field when he was concentrating on tactics or leading the rest of the men under his command.

  The Davidson brothers were fearless when it came to their own safety, and considered protecting their leader to be their most important job.

  As they neared the area of the outermost oil wells, it was John who first noticed a brief scarlet glow in the distance. He quickly tapped Bart's left arm and held his hand out, palm down-the signal to hit the dirt.

  When Bart flopped down prone on the ground, all of the men following immediately did the same.

  Bart shifted his eyes to John, who pointed a bit off to their left and whispered, "Cigarette glow, 'bout two hundred meters."

  Bart followed his directions, and after another moment 142

  he saw it too, a sentry enjoying a cigarette in the early evening darkness.

  "Damn fool," Bart mumbled to himself. Aware that noise traveled long distances on the desert, he patted John's shoulder in silent thanks for the warning, and crawled back to find his radio operator, Walter Johnson.

  Walter had the radio on vibration setting so an incoming call wouldn't alert any nearby sentries.

  Bart moved next to him and whispered, "Give Hugh a call and see what his status is in the city."

  Walter nodded and keyed his mike in a prearranged code. That sent a signal that would sound a couple of low-pitched clicks on Holmsby's radio, another precaution against giving a warning to any nearby ears.

  After a few seconds, Walter heard three answering clicks on his set and nodded at Bart, who took the mike and slipped on an ear-set. "He gave the response that says it's okay to transmit," Walter said.

  "Lion Two, come in. This is Lion One," Bart whispered, his lips against the mike to maintain silence. He spoke so low that even the men lying on the sand a few feet away heard nothing.

  "Lion One, this is Lion Two," Hugh Holmsby responded.

  "What's your situation?" Bart asked.

  "A-l," Hugh answered, indicating he'd achieved his purpose and captured the enemy headquarters in Riyadh.

  "Excellent. Any intel?" Bart asked.

  "Stand by, One," Hugh answered, and was silent for twenty seconds. When he came back on-line, he said, "Here are GPS readings for the locations of wells with bombs attached."

  Bart held up his hand and made writing movements to 143

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  Walter, who quickly handed him a pad and pencil from his breast pocket.

  "Go ahead," Bart said.

  Hugh read off ten sets of numbers, giving the latitude and longitude readings on the Global Positioning Satellite receiver Bart would need to find the wells that had been mined.

  Bart smiled quickly, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness. "How did you manage to get these?" he asked, admiration in his voice.

  "I excel in the art of gentle persuasion," Hugh answered dryly.

  "I'll bet it wasn't too gentle," Bart answered with a chuckle. "Anything else?"

  "My source says the bombs in the wells can be triggered by the terrorist guards, but only by hand. They have no remote detonators with them. He says once they trip the switch, the bombs go off one minute later."

  "Any description of the bomb mechanism itself?"

  "Sorry. My source is not a technician, and the only man here who knew the precise layout of the bombs was killed in our attack. We're looking through all of the papers here to see if we can come up with a schematic, but so far no luck."

  "That's okay, Lion Two. Post some guards on your prisoners and take the rest of your men out into the field. I figure we've got maybe twelve to twenty-four hours before the terrorist reinforcements show up. We've got to get these bombs unhooked and hidden before they arrive."

  . "Yes, sir," Hugh answered. "Looking at a map of the fields, my men are closest to the following wells with bombs." He read off four numbers, indicating the well

 

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