“I will return to Cairo for the funeral, General,” Susan said. “But first we will go to Mersa Matruh to meet these commandos. Make no attempt to retake the ship, but do not allow it to leave, either.”

“You want to keep one of our own captured warships sitting off our own shore with a terrorist commando team aboard, and not do anything about it?”

“They captured it, they deserve to stay on it,” Susan said. “Give them food, medical attention, women—anything they want or need. Just don’t let them leave.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Rather, ask them to stay, until I arrive.”

“Why do you want to meet with them, Sekhmet?” Baris asked. “They could be dangerous men.”

Susan shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said. “In fact, they could be just what we need to take back what Khan and Zuwayy have taken from us.”

It was one of the hardest things she ever had to do in her young life: leave her husband’s side to protect her own life. Now, several minutes from landing at the huge sprawling joint forces military base at Mersa Matruh in northwestern Egypt, Susan Bailey Salaam finally had time to sort out all the horrifying events that had happened over the past several hours:

Susan had been taken away from the mosque by an army ambulance, one of several in the area. They tried to make their way back to Abdin Palace, but the streets were now blocked by protesters and rioters who had heard that Susan had been killed in the blast on the Nile, and they sped off. She was transferred to several different vehicles, and at one point dressed in a flak vest and wore a helmet as a disguise when it appeared protesters were getting too close to their vehicle. She was finally taken to Zahir Air Base in northeastern Cairo and flown out of the city in an army helicopter. The pilot broadcast that his destination was the Egyptian Naval Academy in Alexandria, but once over the Mediterranean, the helicopter dipped low to the water, out of sight of anyone on shore, then proceeded west.

No doubt about it, she thought ruefully as they began their approach for landing—it was an evacuation, out of Cairo, out of the government, out of the people’s lives, fleeing for her own life. She hated the idea of being forced to run from her own home, her own people. She preferred facing her attackers, confronting them head-on, battling for her honor and legacy and that of her husband. But now she was gone. She had to disguise herself to get out of the area—they could not even trust the citizens of Cairo to protect her long enough, even in her grief, to get her safely away from such a disastrous, monstrous, unconscionable event. Even the Presidential Palace was unsafe.