Khalil considered his special relationship with the Great Leader. He had no doubt that Colonel Gadhafi was fond of him and his brothers and sisters. The Colonel had let them stay on in their house in the privileged compound of Al Azziziyah, he had seen to it that his mother had a pension, and that he and his siblings were educated.

And only six months ago, the Colonel had said to him, "You are marked to avenge your father's death."

Asad Khalil had been filled with pride and joy and replied to his surrogate father, "I am ready to serve you and to serve Allah." j

The Colonel had smiled and said, "We are not ready for you, Asad. Another year or two, and we will begin training you to be a freedom fighter."

And now Asad was risking everything-his life, his honor, his family-all for what? For a woman. It made no sense, but… There was the other thing… The thing he knew but could not bring himself to think… The thing with his mother and with Moammar Gadhafi… Yes, there was something there, and he knew what it was, and it was the same thing that had put him here on the roof waiting for Bahira.

He reasoned that if the relationship between his mother and the Great Leader was not a sin, then not all sex outside of marriage was sinful. Moammar Gadhafi would not do anything sinful, anything outside the Sharia, the accepted way. Therefore, Asad Khalil, if caught, would take his case directly to the Great Leader and explain his confusion concerning these matters. He would explain that it was Bahira's father who had brought home the magazine from Germany that showed photos of naked men and women, and it was this filth from the West that had corrupted him.

Bahira had found the magazine hidden beneath bags of rice in their house and had stolen it and showed it to Khalil. They had looked at the photographs together-a sin that would have gotten them both whipped if they'd been caught. But instead of the photographs filling them with disgust and shame, it was these pictures that had been the cause of their speaking of the unspeakable. She had said to him, "I want to show myself to you like these women. I want to show you all that I have. I want to see you, Asad, and feel your flesh."

And so, Satan had entered her and through her had entered him. He had read the story of Adam and Eve in the Hebrew book of Genesis, and had been told by his mousyed, his spiritual teacher, that women were weak and lustful and had committed the original sin and would lure men to sin if men did not remain strong.

And yet… he thought, even great men like the Colonel could be corrupted by women. He would explain that to the Colonel if he were caught. Perhaps they would not stone Bahira to death and would let them off with a whipping.

The night was cool and Khalil shivered. He remained kneeling on his prayer mat, Koran in his hands. At ten minutes after two, there was a noise on the stairs, and he looked up to see a dark outline standing at the opening of the tin shed. He said softly, "Allah, be merciful."

CHAPTER 15

Lieutenant Chip Wiggins said to Lieutenant Bill Satherwaite, "We're getting a strong crosswind. There's that south wind that blows out of the desert. What's it called?"

"It's called the south wind that blows out of the desert."

"Right. Anyway, that'll be a good tailwind for getting the hell out of there-plus, we'll be four bombs lighter."

Satherwaite mumbled a reply.

Wiggins stared out the windscreen into the dark night. He had no idea if he'd see the sun rise on this day. But he knew that if they accomplished their mission, they'd be heros-but nameless heros. For this was no ordinary war-this was a war against international terrorists whose reach went beyond the Middle East, and thus the names of the pilots on this mission would never be released to the press or the public, and would be classified top secret for all time. Something about that rubbed Wiggins the wrong way; it was an admission that the bad guys could reach out, right into the heartland of America, and exact a revenge against the pilots and crew or their families. On the other hand, even though there would be no parades or public awards ceremonies, this anonymity made him a little more comfortable. Better to be an unnamed hero than a named terrorist target.

They continued east over the Mediterranean. Wiggins thought about how many wars had been fought around this ancient sea and especially on the shores of North Africa-the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Carthaginians, the Romans, the Arabs, on and on for thousands of years right up until the Second World War-the Italians, the German Afrika Korps, the British, the Americans… The sea and the sand of North Africa was a mass grave of soldiers, sailors, and airmen. To the shores of Tripoli, he said to himself, aware that he was not the only flier that night to think those words. We will fight our country's battles…

Satherwaite asked, "Time till turn?"

Wiggins came out of his reverie and checked his position. "Twelve minutes."

"Keep the clock."

"Roger."

Twelve minutes later, the formation began a ninety-degree turn to the south. The entire air armada, minus tankers, was on a course toward the Libyan coast. Satherwaite pushed his throttles forward and the F-lll gathered speed.

Bill Satherwaite scanned the clock and the flight instruments. They were approaching the aerial gate where the attack preparations and profiles would begin. He noted his indicated air speed at true four hundred eighty knots and his altitude at twenty-five thousand feet. They were less than two hundred miles from the coast and headed dead-on for Tripoli. He heard a series of radio clicks, which he acknowledged in kind, and with the rest of his squadron began his descent.

Satherwaite was inclined to start the final checklists right then, but he knew that it was a little early, that it was possible to get yourself peaked too soon, and that was not a smart way to go into combat. He waited.

Wiggins cleared his throat, and over the interphone it sounded like a roar and gave them both a start. Wiggins said, "One hundred miles to feet dry," using the aviator's term for land.

"Roger."

They both looked at the radar screen, but there was nothing coming out of Libya to greet and meet them. They leveled off at a mere three hundred feet above sea level.

"Eighty miles."

"Okay, let's get started on the attack review."

"Ready."

Satherwaite and Wiggins began the litanies of the checklist and reviews. Just as they were finished, Wiggins looked up and saw the lights of Tripoli straight ahead. "Tally-ho." Satherwaite looked up, too, and nodded. He moved the hydraulic wing position lever, and the outstretched wings of the F-lll began to sweep further aft, like the wings of a hawk who's spotted his meal on the ground.

Wiggins noticed that his heart had speeded up a little, and he realized he was very thirsty.

Satherwaite increased power again as the F-111s approached the coast in formation. Their run-in altitude remained at three hundred feet, and they'd been told there were no radio towers or skyscrapers that high to worry about. Their run-in speed was now five hundred knots. It was zero-one-fifty hours. In a few minutes, they'd break formation and head toward their individual targets in and around Tripoli.

Wiggins listened closely to the silence in his headset, then heard a warbling tone that indicated a radar lock-on. Oh, shit. He looked quickly at his radar homing and warning screen and said, with as cool a tone as he was able to fake, "SAM alert at one o'clock."

Satherwaite nodded. "I guess they're awake."

"I'd like to kick that briefing officer in the nuts."

"He's not the problem and neither are those missiles."

"Right…" The F-III was flying too low and fast for the missiles to score a hit, but now at three hundred feet, they were squarely in the killing zone of the anti-aircraft guns.