“Do you think they’ve gone home?” Anderson asked, swallowing back his fear.
“Nah!” Geary replied absently. “They’re just waiting for instructions.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling here.”
“Me, too.”
“Maybe we should call Washington and see if they can clear a flight path for us,” Anderson suggested. “You know, some kind of diplomatic bullshit.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Geary said. “We’re all on our own up here.”
A missile suddenly streaked by the Gulfstream’s cockpit. It came so close its trail of fire lighted up the cabin and blinded the agents for a moment. The turbojet abruptly dipped as one of its Rolls-Royce engines began to sputter.
“Jesus Christ!” Anderson bellowed. “Those bastards are going to kill us!”
“Where are those Navy jets?” Geary cried out. “Where the hell are they?”
Twenty-six
Aliev paraded Carolyn back and forth between the rows of hostages. They walked at a slow, deliberate pace, as if measuring each captive for execution. The selection process went on and on in silence. With each passing second the tension mounted. The male hostages tried to stand tall, but the fear showed on their faces. The women cowered and looked away.
Aliev stopped abruptly in front of the Russian Foreign Minister and spoke in English. “I notice your hands are shaking, Valerenkov.”
Alexi Valerenkov clenched his fists and glared back. “I hope I live long enough to see you hanged.”
“You won’t,” Aliev snarled, and turned back to Carolyn. “Now you must choose who will die.”
“I can’t,” Carolyn begged off.
“Make the choice,” Aliev demanded, “or I will kill two hostages instead of one.”
“I’m a nurse,” Carolyn pleaded. “You can’t ask me to …”
“Then it will be two.”
They were standing by the nurses’ station, looking down the corridor. All of the hostages, except for the President, were outside the doors to their suites. Some were so weak they had to lean against the wall to support their weight. A few were sitting on the floor. Terrorists with Uzis watched their every move.
“So let us begin,” Aliev said casually. “We will choose one from this end and one from the other.”
“Please don’t!” Carolyn implored.
Aliev shoved her down the corridor in front of him. The phone at the nurses’ station began to ring. He ignored it.
“We should answer the phone,” Carolyn said quickly, hoping to spare people a little longer. “It’ll only take a minute.”
“We attend to business first,” Aliev growled, and pushed her on.
They came to the Russian president and his wife. Dimitri Suslev looked beat and defeated, his face drawn, his head hanging down as if it was too heavy to carry.
“Ah, the powerful President of Russia,” Aliev taunted in Russian. “Do you feel like ordering your planes out today to bomb Chechnya? Maybe you could kill a few hundred more innocent women and children, eh?”
Suslev didn’t answer.
Aliev used the barrel of his Uzi to lift up Suslev’s chin. “I should blow your brains out now. But I have other uses for you and your ugly wife.”
They moved on, passing Ivana Suslev, who was seated on the floor and still gagging with nausea. Her blond hair was disheveled, her lipstick smeared, the makeup on her face cracked and peeling. She smelled strongly of vomit.
“Ugh!” Aliev said theatrically, dragging Carolyn along behind him.
They walked slowly up to the Secretary of State and his wife. The couple were holding hands and straining to maintain their dignity. Aliev paused to inspect them, like they were mannequins on display.
“Are you ready to die, Mr. Secretary?” Aliev asked.
“There are worse things,” the Secretary replied evenly.
“Yes, I know,” Aliev answered. “I have experienced them.”
At the end of the corridor, they approached Lucy and Jamie Merrill. The First Lady was standing beside her daughter, her eyes glued on Aliev and the weapon he was pointing at them. If she was frightened, she didn’t show it.
“Ah, the First Lady and the First Daughter, two of our most valuable hostages,” Aliev remarked. “You would agree with me, no?”
Lucy Merrill didn’t reply.
“And killing the First Daughter would make a very strong impression,” Aliev continued on. “Certainly you would agree to that.”
“You leave her alone!” Lucy snapped, hurriedly placing herself between Aliev and Jamie. Pushing her fear aside, she glowered at the terrorist and added, “Only cowards go after children.”
“Oh, yes,” Aliev said, nodding to himself. “The mother bear protecting the baby bear.”
“You touch her, and you’ll get nothing,” Lucy warned.
“What if I just point a gun at her head?” Aliev wondered aloud. “In front of the President, of course.”
“Bastard!” Lucy spat out.
“Yes. And a bastard who knows how to obtain the things he wants.”
Aliev turned sharply and headed back down the corridor, shoving Carolyn in front of him. “So you’ve picked the Secretary of State to die first,” he said, raising his voice for everyone to hear. “A good choice.”
Carolyn quickly looked over to the Secretary and shook her head and gestured with her hands.
The Secretary nodded back. He understood.
Ahead of them, the door to the lounge opened and a wounded terrorist ran into the corridor. “Aliev! Aliev!” he called out, pointing to the blood-soaked bandage on his shoulder.
Aliev quickly pulled the dressing off and exposed a gaping wound that was filled with blood clots. At the edges were pieces of dirty cotton. He motioned Carolyn over and said, “You will attend to this.”
Carolyn examined the shredded deltoid muscle, which was still oozing blood. She knew immediately that it was a through-and-through gunshot wound. “It has to be cleaned and he’ll need antibiotics.”
“Do it,” Aliev ordered and steered the pair into the treatment room.
As Carolyn reached for a bottle of sterile saline, she had an almost overwhelming impulse to put dirt in the wound and start a virulent infection. But she just couldn’t do it. Even a terrorist deserved humane medical care.
“What are you doing?” Aliev asked, moving in for a closer look.
“Irrigating the wound.” Carolyn poured saline into the open muscle and carefully removed the blood clots and debris. The bleeding began to increase, particularly at the base of the gash.
“How do you stop the bleeding?” Aliev inquired.
“With a pressure dressing,” Carolyn replied. She placed a thick gauze atop the wound and wrapped it tightly with an Ace bandage. “Now I’ll give him a shot of antibiotics.”
She hurried out into the corridor, through the nurses’ station and into the medicine room. Aliev was only a step behind her. He crowded into the small room and peered over her shoulder, watching her every move.
“What is this antibiotic?” Aliev asked.
“It’s called Cefobid.”
Aliev eyed her suspiciously. “How do I know you are telling me the truth?”
“Here.” Carolyn handed him the insert from the packaged antibiotic. “You can see for yourself.”
The printing on the insert was small, and Aliev had to step out into the brighter light of the nurses’ station to read it.
Carolyn took out the vial of Cefobid, which came as a powder and had to be dissolved in a diluent. Preparing the solution for injection, Carolyn suddenly stopped and smiled to herself. Let’s see if I can put another terrorist out of commission. She reached up for a handful of Valium vials that David had requested. Quickly she removed t
wo ccs from a vial and mixed it in with the solution of Cefobid. That’s ten milligrams of Valium—not enough to knock him out, but plenty enough to make him drowsy.
“Okay,” Aliev approved. “You may give it.”
They went back into the corridor where the hostages were still standing. The President of Russia had slumped to the floor, obviously defecating in his pants. The stench was awful.
Aliev grinned at the spectacle, seeming to enjoy it.
What a bastard! Carolyn thought to herself, wishing it was Aliev who would be receiving the shot of Valium. A sedated Aliev would be easier to kill. Carolyn had never hoped for someone to die before—until she met up with Aliev. She would happily dance on his grave.
Aliev called the wounded terrorist into the corridor where Carolyn administered the injection of Cefobid and Valium. The terrorist stared at her without even a hint of gratitude. All she saw was hatred in his eyes.
The terrorist growled menacingly and spat at her feet.
You animal! Carolyn seethed and glared back at him, her temper almost boiling over. She clenched her jaw and resisted the urge to rip his bandage off and start the wound bleeding again. With effort she controlled her anger and silently said to him, Let’s see how tough you are when the Valium soaks into your brain.
“All right,” Alive announced, “we must return to our selection process.”
“These people are so ill,” Carolyn beseeched. “They have to be allowed to get back into their beds.”
“They will,” Aliev promised. “As soon as you’ve chosen the second hostage to die.”
“Please don’t—”
“You’ve already chosen the Secretary of State,” Aliev cut her off. “So we need only one more.”
At the nurses’ station, the phone continued to ring. Aliev motioned to one of the terrorists to answer it. “Whoever it is, tell them we’re busy with an execution.”
They came to Sol Simcha, who was sitting in a wheelchair outside his room. He was reading from a Hebrew prayer book. He quietly recited a final verse before closing the book and looking up. His face was serene.
“Your God can’t help you now,” Aliev jeered.
“I wasn’t asking for help,” Simcha replied.
“What were you asking for?”
“That’s between Him and me.”
Aliev shrugged and pointed his Uzi at Simcha’s head. “Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. Because shortly you will be a dead man.”
“So will you,” Simcha said without inflection. “They’ll shoot you like they would a mad dog in the street.”
“Say your last words, Jew!”
“No!” Carolyn screamed. “Let him alone!”
“Only if you pick someone to take his place,” Aliev snarled.
“I can’t do that!” Carolyn protested.
“Then the old Jew dies.”
Simcha closed his eyes and thought back to the dreary day he and his family arrived at Auschwitz. He could still recall the exact moment his mother and father and little brother were pulled away from him and taken to the gas chambers. Oh, how I would love to see them again! Dear God, I’ve tried to live a good and decent life. So in your infinite mercy, grant me one final wish. Let me see my family once again. Let me kiss my mother and father and little brother Yakov. Please, dear God! Then Simcha began reciting the oldest of Jewish prayers, proclaiming there is one God and only one God. “Shema Yisrael Adonai …”
A terrorist yelled down the corridor. “Aliev! It is Shamil on the phone! It is Shamil!”
Simcha felt the barrel of the Uzi still on his head. He continued to recite the Shema.
Twenty-seven
One of Eagle Two’s engines continued to sputter and lose power, causing the plane to slow. It was now traveling at 490 miles per hour.
“We’d better pray the other engine doesn’t go, eh?” Geary asked, with a mix of bravado and concern.
“Yeah,” Anderson replied absently, his eyes fixed on the instrument panel.
“If we do have a total engine failure, is there any way to land this plane on the beach?” Geary asked.
Anderson shook his head. “If that happens, you can kiss your ass goodbye. We’d drop like a pancake from this altitude.”
“And they could ship us home in boxes.”
“Assuming they could find enough pieces.”
Anderson tried to pick up the Mexican interceptors on the radar screen, but it stayed blank. They are probably above and behind us, he thought gloomily. They’ve got us up in their sights and are waiting for the order to push the button. And this time they won’t miss. He turned his attention back to the night outside, and saw only blackness.
The Gulfstream’s radio came to life.
“N-Four-Three-Four-Two-P, this is your last warning. If you do not ascend to two thousand feet and follow me, we have orders to open fire. Do you read?”
Anderson turned quickly to Geary. “What do you want to do?”
Geary hesitated, thinking fast. “Try to stall him.”
“How?”
“Tell him we’ll ascend to two thousand feet but we need to know where he’s leading us.”
“He’ll just say for us to follow him in.”
“Screw him! Tell him we need to know.”
The radio crackled loudly.
“This is Mexican Air Force jet flight leader. You have thirty seconds to acknowledge our warning.”
“We read you,” Anderson said hastily. “We will climb to two thousand feet. We must know where we’re headed. Over.”
“You are to follow us.”
“Flight leader, we must have a specific location. Over.”
After a pause, the Mexican pilot said, “You will land at El Ciprés Air Base.”
“Roger that. We are beginning our ascent.” Anderson looked over to Geary and said, “Here goes! Let’s hope those guys on the ground understand our Spanish.”
“Yeah,” Geary muttered miserably, then cursed to himself. Goddamn it! Being caught by the Mexican authorities was bad enough. But they were leaving the President in a dangerous lurch that could cost him his life.
Eagle Two slowly ascended to two thousand feet, still on a northerly heading. In the distance they could see the twinkling lights of Ensenada. Which was only a skip and a jump from the border. So near, both men were thinking, so damn near.
The radio crackled again.
“I wonder what the Mexes want now,” Geary asked irritably.
“Who the hell knows?” Anderson replied, looking for the Mexican jets but not seeing them.
“Howdy, Eagle Two,” an American voice came on. “This is Easy Rider from the USS Ronald Reagan, coming to take you home.”
Anderson breathed a long, deep sigh of relief. “A big howdy back to you, Easy Rider. Over.”
“Now you level off at two thousand and stay on your previous course,” Easy Rider instructed in a Texas drawl. “Me and the posse here will take care of the bogeymen for you. Over.”
“Thank you, Navy,” Anderson said. “And you have a nice night.”
Geary and Anderson leaned back and waited for their racing pulses to slow down. Both knew how near to death and disaster they’d come. Had the Mexican’s pilot’s aim been just a little off with his initial missile, eight Secret Service agents would now be stone-cold dead, their bodies at the bottom of the sea and unrecoverable. Had they been captured, they would have spent a long, long time in some flea-infested Mexican prison.
“Close, eh?” Anderson said finally.
“Too damn close,” Geary replied, the back of his combat fatigues now drenched with perspiration. He reached behind and peeled the uniform away from his skin. His gaze went to the electronic flight instrument panel. A squadron of U.S. Navy jets suddenly appeared
on the radar screen. Geary relaxed but kept his eyes glued in the darkness outside. “Are we going to see a dogfight?”
“No way,” Anderson told him, thinking back to his days as a Marine aviator. He had trained with Mexican pilots at a naval flight school outside San Diego. He remembered the jets they brought with them. F-5 Freedom Fighters. Those planes were good interceptors, but no match for the F-18s. “The Mexicans will run for their lives when they see those Hornets.”
“And what if they don’t?”
“Then they’ll die here and now,” Anderson replied, pointing to a screen on his left. “We’re talking about ten Hornets, any pair of which could blast those Mexican interceptors to hell and back.”
“The Hornets are that powerful, eh?”
Anderson nodded. “And our pilots a hundred times more skilled. Along with the Israelis, they’re the best in the world. You don’t want to screw around with them.”
The radio came back on. “Eagle Two, this is Easy Rider. Our Mexican compadres have decided to take a little siesta. We’re going to cozy up alongside and escort you right back into the good old U.S. of A.”
“Thanks, Navy.”
“Any time, partner.”
Eagle Two flew on in the darkness. Directly ahead were the lights of Tijuana, and just beyond that the glitter of San Diego.
“If you want to go over your rescue plans with the others one last time, you’d better get to it,” Anderson said. “We’ll have our wheels down in twelve minutes.”
Twenty-eight
Only now was Sol Simcha feeling the awful fright. Although he was back in his room and the terrorists nowhere in sight, his hands were trembling. He had reacted the same way when he had been threatened by the Nazis at Auschwitz, Simcha recalled. At the moment one truly faced death, there was a calmness, an inner sense of acceptance. But later on, after the terrible threat had passed, one realized how good life was, even under the worst of conditions. And that’s when the shaking started. Then came the dreadful waiting, knowing the executioners would return, but not knowing when.
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