"Thanks, but I can't eat another bite."
"They're famous for their pecan pie."
"I'm saving myself for this evening." Her gray-green eyes sparkled with anticipation. "Monterey, here we come."
"And tomorrow we re off to Hawaii," Scott confirmed.
"Off to Hawaii in our own jet." She reached for his hand and gently squeezed it. "No more long lines, security hassles, or missed connections, no air rage, and no lost luggage."
"Say hallelujah," he said, with a smile.
Scott Johnston Dalton, a former U. S. Marine Corps Harrier pilot, was a descendant of a Confederate general and the son of a retired marine corps brigadier. Standing six feet tall, he had dark hair, broad shoulders, and piercing blue eyes that exuded confidence.
After his active duty commitment to the marine corps, Scott reported to the Central Intelligence Agency for initial training. During his stint at the Agency, he gained recognition in a short period of time. However, the internal politics and turf wars finally drove him out of the organization. Regarded as one of the CIAs best and brightest, Scott's impending departure from the Agency was noticed at the White House.
The president and his closest adviser had watched Scott develop into a first-rate counterterrorism expert. They did not want to lose his blend of marine corps and CIA training, natural flying ability, honed parachuting skills, and other extraordinary capabilities. He was a highly dedicated, motivated, and resourceful operative. Hartwell Prost, the president's national security adviser, was dispatched to offer Dalton a plum position, albeit a dangerous one. After mulling the offer and weighing the odds, Scott accepted the challenge. He would be an off-the-record covert operator working directly for Prost.
As a private citizen with no ties to the U. S. government, Scott would conduct special operations on behalf of the White House. Only President Cord Macklin, Hartwell Prost, and his senior aide would know about the clandestine arrangement. Dalton would be operating outside the boundaries of congressional-oversight requirements that often hamper covert CIA operations.
Scott would be free to circumvent the obstacles that might prove embarrassing to President Macklin, the departments of Justice and State, the Central Intelligence Agency, or the Pentagon. His primary objective on any assignment was to leave no fingerprints, no record of any kind, and certainly no sensational headlines. If anything went wrong, Macklin and Prost would disavow any knowledge of him. The risk factor was high, but Prost assured him the reward was commensurate with the risks.
Scott had met Jackie by chance at an elegant restaurant in Georgetown. She was unaware that Scott was a former CIA counter-terrorism strike-force team leader. Likewise, he was unaware that Jackie was a clandestine intelligence officer with the Defense Human Intelligence Service. Their initial conversation was about being former military fighter pilots. They had spent the majority of the evening exchanging their humorous experiences in the service, and afterward, when Scott invited Jackie to go sailing the following weekend, she accepted. Much to his disappointment, he was called away two days later for a covert operation in Buenos Aires. He attempted to contact Jackie at her home, but her phone recorder was not working.
While Scott was on assignment in Argentina, his maid discarded the cocktail napkin on which he had scribbled Jackie's unlisted telephone number. When Scott returned to Washington, he continued to frequent the dining establishment where he and Jackie met. Unfortunately, the dark-haired beauty never reappeared.
By happenstance, they were reunited less than a year later by Hartwell Prost. He enlisted their collective assistance to rescue one of Jackie's closest colleagues at the Defense Human Intelligence Service. Working alone, under deep cover, Jackie's friend was trapped in Lebanon, surrounded by hard-core terrorists in the Bekaa Valley.
After Scott and Jackie returned from the hazardous rescue mission, they explored the idea of joining forces to capitalize on their combined skills. Scott needed a dedicated and qualified pilot to assist him. He and his partner had to think alike, instinctively knowing what the other person was going to do at any given moment.
Working under great stress and pressure, they had to have implicit trust in each other. There was no question in Scott's mind: Jackie was that person. After surviving the Bekaa Valley operation, they solidified their mutual trust and allegiance. The chemistry between them was beyond improvement.
Jackie was an unusually gifted aviator in both fixed-wing and helicopter aircraft. Her clandestine background, language skills, highspeed driving ability, calmness under fire, and military training as an F-16 fighter jock made her perfect for the job.
After discussing the concept at length, they approached Hartwell Prost with their suggestion. Three days later, aboard Marine One en route to Camp David, Prost presented the idea to the president, who endorsed the merger.
Operating as The Dalton & Sullivan Group, Incorporated, Jackie and Scott formed a legitimate aviation-consulting firm located near Ronald Reagan National Airport and hired a full-time secretary to mind the office. Mary Beth Collins was a bright, vivacious self-starter who had the office humming from day one.
Between special assignments and sensitive field operations for Prost, Scott and Jackie conducted their consulting business in a professional manner. Subtleties from a few new clients confirmed what they suspected from the day their firm was incorporated. The growing business was getting good press from someone with a lot of influence at the highest level of the U. S. government. Undoubtedly Hartwell was behind the steady increase in blue-chip clients.
Jackie studied Scott's face. "You look like you're ready to launch from the catapult in Zone-Five burner."
"Is it that obvious?" He smiled and shifted in his seat.
"Yes, but I don't blame you. I feel the same way: can't wait to get my hands on our plane."
He checked his watch. "It's not like we take delivery of a new Gulfstream One Hundred every day."
She raised an eyebrow in good humor. "It's probably normal to be anxious, to want to finalize the deal before we wake up and find out it was only a dream."
"Don't say that," Scott said, with a nervous laugh.
"Well, it is going to happen." Jackie leaned closer to him and spoke in a whisper. "We earned it, in spades, and we're going to put it to good use."
"For business and pleasure," he added.
"Our magic carpet."
Scott smiled with pure satisfaction. "No more torture sessions at the hands of the baggage screeners."
A mild sigh of relief escaped Jackie's lips. "That and being crammed into a seat designed for a skinny ten-year-old girl."
The couple had earned large fees for completing three dangerous operations for Prost. The sensitive missions involved the Peoples Republic of China and were critical to U. S. national security Prost arranged to have the multimillion-dollar checks hand-delivered to Scott and Jackie's personal representative at an offshore bank on Grand Cayman.
Between rum punches and working on their tans, the duo disbursed funds to several investment accounts in the United States. After a five-day vacation on Grand Cayman, Scott and Jackie made arrangements to pay for their new corporate jet. When the transaction was verified, they departed the island paradise for Gulfstream 100 initial training at FlightSafety International located at the Greater Philadelphia/Wilmington Learning Center, New Castle, Delaware. There they received their type ratings and were qualified to fly as PIC (pilot in command) in the Gulfstream 100. Afterward, they returned to Washington, caught up on their mail and phone messages, and then left the following evening for Dallas/Fort Worth.
A midsize jet with an IFR (instrument flight rules) range of 2,950 nautical miles/3,400 statute miles, the Gulfstream 100 is capable of flying nonstop from New York to Los Angeles, or San Francisco to Honolulu, with ample fuel reserves.
They considered a number of jets, but only the Gulfstream 100 met their primary criteria: safety, speed, range, payload, and low operating cost. With an Mmo (maximum Mach) of .875, th
e corporate jet could cover a lot of territory in a short period of time.
Normally unflappable, Scott's anxiety was growing by the minute. "What do you think?" he asked Jackie. "Want to head to the airport and watch our new plane arrive?"
"Actually, Fve been ready since sunrise," Jackie conceded, reaching for her handbag. "Let s get this celebration under way."
"Ditto." Scott signaled their waitress and handed her a credit card. He looked at Jackie and smiled. "Why don't you take us to California, and I'll take the helm to Hawaii?"
"Deal." She returned the smile. "Diplomacy. You're showing steady improvement."
"I aim to please."
Scott waited for his credit card, signed the tab, and then slid Jackie's chair back. "Let's go get our plane."
"On second thought"--she hesitated and caught his eye--"perhaps you should fly the first leg."
She can't be serious. "What's the catch?"
"No catch." She appraised him closely "Just thought I might christen the bar and celebrate our inaugural flight."
"Your choice."
Khaliq Farkas studied the facades of two circa 1880s buildings in the Sundance Square complex. He adjusted an air-conditioning vent in the Buick and lit another American-made cigarette. He placed a remote-control unit on the front seat next to his 9mm Smith & Wesson and waited. Considered one of the world's most dangerous and elusive terrorists, Farkas was a merciless, pathological product of a radical ideological culture, a culture that began shaping his views and beliefs when he was three years old.
Over a period of years, the forcible application of prolonged and intensive indoctrination induced a regimented sense of hatred and cruelty in the teenage Farkas. Extremist political, social, and religious beliefs were deeply ingrained in his young mind. By the time Khaliq Farkas turned sixteen, he had killed his first three infidels with a car bomb.
During the next fifteen years, Farkas and various special action cells of Hezbollah (Islamic Jihad) were responsible for numerous bombings, kidnappings, assassinations, hijackings, extortion plots, money-laundering schemes, and plane crashes.
Operating as a direct extension of Osama bin Laden's al-Qaeda, Farkas had eliminated a number of Jewish religious and political leaders who had close ties to the United States. With strong encouragement and considerable financial backing from bin Laden, Farkas and an accomplice had even attempted to assassinate the U. S. president, an assault that had changed the way Air Force One operated.
With Osama bin Laden's influence greatly diminished, Saeed Shayhidi was now calling the shots and providing a continuous flow of operating funds to a handful of terrorist organizations. Farkas, the leader of the most experienced group, was poised to continue his personal jihad against the United States until "Western imperialism" and the cultural pollution of the "Great Satan" were driven from the Persian Gulf. But first the field general had another mission to accomplish, one he had dreamed about for a long time.
Scott Dalton and Jackie Sullivan had caused Farkas much anguish and professional embarrassment, having single-handedly quashed several of his terrorist attempts. Farkas knew he must eliminate the possibility of their involvement before Shayhidi s far-ranging plans were set in motion. With revenge paramount in his mind, the feared terrorist was parked only seventy yards from the couple's rental car.
Although no one in Farkas s operation was sure who the mysterious Americans worked for, they were thought to be either special operatives from the CIA or members of some hush-hush experimental military unit. There was one thing Farkas did know: the pair had to be eliminated before they caused more damage.
The American operatives had come to Saeed Shayhidi s attention through his close connections with other extremist groups, foreign and domestic spies, espionage specialists, and well-organized Southeast Asian allies, including the Chinese-based "Four Seas" Triad gang. Jackie and Scott became target number one on many of the bad guys' radarscopes, but trying to get reliable information about them proved to be difficult.
Zheng Yen-Tsung, a senior aide to a former Chinese prime minister who chaired the National People's Congress, had encountered the two operatives in China and sent a detailed description and a sketch of Sullivan and Dalton to half a dozen leaders of major terrorist organizations, including Shayhidi. The description, sketch, and reward for information about the Americans was disseminated to informants throughout the New York City, Newark, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington, D. C., areas.
Zheng spelled out in graphic detail how Dalton and Sullivan had exposed a secret Chinese weapons system. Recuperating from a gunshot wound inflicted by Dalton, Zheng explained that the two operatives must be removed. Through the efforts of Zheng, the Peoples Liberation Army was offering $7.8 million for the assassination of Sullivan and Dalton.
By chance, the Iranian taxi driver who drove Scott and Jackie from a Georgetown restaurant to Reagan Airport thought he recognized the elusive couple. When he asked them which airline they were flying, Scott confirmed they were booked on American Airlines. In a pleasant manner, the driver tried to cajole the couple into revealing their destination and where they would be staying that evening. When Jackie and Scott deflected the inquiry, the driver formed a new plan.
After he dropped the Americans at the airport, the driver--"on assignment" "from an Islamic group--parked his cab and jogged to the terminal building. He checked the departing flights and discovered the last American Airlines flight was scheduled to leave at 7:16 P. M. Flight number 1991 was a nonstop departure to DFW.
He immediately went to the nearest pay telephone, called his contact in Fredericksburg, Virginia, gave him the detailed information, and made arrangements to collect the reward if the couple turned out to be the operatives targeted for assassination.
When Khaliq Farkas was notified at his headquarters in Idaho, he contacted two associates living in the Dallas area. He faxed sketches of the operatives and instructed the men to meet the flight at DFW. The subordinates would confirm Scott and Jackie's identity and then follow them to wherever they were staying. Farkas ordered his men to remain vigilant until he arrived to relieve them.
Next, Farkas communicated through an intermediary with Saeed Shayhidi. He passionately lobbied for permission to assassinate the pair. Shayhidi gave his approval to proceed with the operation but stressed that it should not interfere with their primary objective. Farkas was a crucial part of their plan. Shayhidi could not risk the possibility of having him captured or killed before the operation was under way. Farkas assured his go-between the assassinations would be uncomplicated and the task would in no way interfere with the master plan. Nothing would be jeopardized by his side trip to Dallas.
Late in the evening, therefore, Farkas gathered his bomb-making equipment and boarded a chartered Citation III bound for Dallass Love Field. En route, he called his associates, who met American Airlines Flight number 1991. The suspected operatives were staying at the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport Marriott. Due to increased security at airports and airport hotels, it would be foolish to try anything at DFW. Although Farkas preferred not to conduct business in the light of day, he would have to terminate the Americans after they left their hotel.
With the air conditioner running at maximum capacity, Farkas waited for his unsuspecting prey to return to their car. He smoked another cigarette and then extinguished it in the overflowing ashtray. Growing impatient, he was relieved when he saw the couple emerge from the Sundance Square complex and approach their rented Lincoln Continental. Okay, stay relaxed. Wait until they're inside the car.
Dressed in navy-blue slacks and a camel-colored silk blouse, Jackie could pass for a top fashion model. As they made their way to the Lincoln, she shifted her purse to her right shoulder. "This time tomorrow we'll be en route to Hawaii."
Scott glanced at the clear Texas sky. "Actually, we'll be getting ready to land in Honolulu."
"Are you sure you don't want to get up before dawn, get an early start?"
"Positive," he sai
d firmly. "Let's take it easy and relax. Remember, we don't have to rush to the airport."
"You're right, I'm still in airline mode."
Farkas rested his finger on the trigger of the remote-control unit and waited for the couple to enter the Lincoln. A faint smile crossed his ruddy face as Scott and Jackie neared their car. Look at them--not a care in the world.
Without warning, a police officer approached Farkas's car and tapped his knuckles on the driver's window. Startled, Farkas's right hand prematurely triggered the potent explosive. The shiny Lincoln was instantaneously engulfed in a huge fireball, at the same moment that Farkas reached for his Smith & Wesson.
He shot the stunned patrolman twice, shifted the Buick into gear, and floored the accelerator. Shards of the driver s window shattered along the street. He fishtailed around a corner, bounced off a parked car, and disappeared in heavy traffic.
Sonofabitch! He was furious, banging the steering wheel and cursing nonstop. The beginnings of fear crept into his mind. It was all he could do to force himself to slow down and blend in with the other cars. How can this be? Has Allah put a curse on me?
The thunderous, reverberating explosion lifted the heavy Lincoln three feet off the pavement, ripping it to pieces. Scott forced Jackie to the ground and sprawled on top of her, trying to protect her from the falling debris. Metal pans and glass flew in every direction, ricocheting off parked cars and raining down on the street. Even sheltered by other automobiles, Jackie and Scott could feel the heat from the blast thirty yards away.
His ears ringing, Scott automatically reached for his 9mm Sig Sauer; then, realizing the threat was gone, he shoved it back into its concealed holster. He helped Jackie to her feet, and they stared in silence at the demolished car. The main bulk of the Lincoln, frame, engine, transmission, and three wheels, was sitting at a 45-degree angle to the parking space. The pavement underneath was scorched a charcoal-brownish color. One tire was burning while the other three smoldered, sending a thick plume of black smoke billowing into the blue sky, which drifted away on the warm Texas wind.
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