Exhausted from being on duty round the clock for three days, the Syrian pilots went over the flight plan for the last segment of the trip and then took a nap in the jet. The disconcerted flight attendant tidied the BBJ and went to see if he could find marshmallows in Tripoli.
THE WHITE HOUSE
President Cord Macklin projected the image of the consummate Washington politician, though he still thought of himself as an aging air force fighter jock. The former F-105 Thunderchief pilot--Thud driver, in fighter parlance--had survived many close calls, including being shot down, during his two tours in Vietnam.
Tall and trim, with silver-gray hair and deep blue eyes, Macklin was always impeccably attired, be it in a business suit, evening wear, or a pair of denim jeans and a cable-stitch sweater. An avid golfer and trapshooting enthusiast, he possessed a great sense of humor and a self-deprecating personality that made people feel at ease. Although Macklin was a thoughtful, considerate man, he didnt suffer fools well.
The Oval Office was quiet while the president reviewed the latest reconnaissance information from Global Hawk and various space-based assets. Knowing the window of opportunity was rapidly closing, Pete Adair, Hartwell Prost, and General Les Chalmers were impatiently waiting for their boss to make a decision.
Leaning back in his chair, Macklin removed his tortoiseshell spectacles and turned to Prost. "What do you recommend?" "Not wasting another minute."
The president was pleasantly surprised by Prost s emphatic response. The QM2 tragedy had everyone on edge. "Pete?" Macklin asked.
"I agree, sir," he said urgently. "Its time to move out." "Les, what say you?"
"I strongly recommend immediate action," Chalmers replied. Macklin clasped his fingers together and leaned his elbows on the desk. "Gentlemen, lets do it--no mistakes."
GEORGETOWN
Scott and Jackie were packing for their trip to Spokane when the satellite phone rang. She answered it and then covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "It s Hartwell."
Scott nodded and continued packing.
Jackie mostly listened during the brief conversation, thanked Prost for the latest information, and put the phone down. "Some unexpected news, good and not so good." "And?"
"The bad news first. Shayhidi is using a homemade code to send Khaliq Farkas e-mail, so we dont know what they're doing or are about to do. We'd know a lot more if Shayhidi was using encrypted messages."
"The good news?"
"Farkas is in the Idaho-Utah area. That's where the e-mail went, but they can't be more specific."
"Well, it's a start, and it tracks with the migration of terrorists coming into the area from Canada." Scott zipped his luggage closed. "Locating Farkas is the first step."
"Oh, one other thing," Jackie said. "Hartwell reminded us to keep an eye on the television."
THE BOEING BUSINESS JET
Stretched out in the comfortable backseat of his limousine, Saeed Shayhidi adjusted the air-conditioning and paused to reflect on his good fortune. He was pleased with himself, pleased indeed. The expanded oil-shipping contract was more than he had counted on or bargained for. Now, after he assured the Libyans he had the capacity to deliver on the newly signed agreement, Shayhidi would have to locate two additional tanker ships or forfeit a $i4.3-million bonus.
The vessels would have to be supertankers, behemoths capable of carrying over seventy million gallons of crude oil. This was not going to be an easy task, given the time frame. Since there are not many idle supertankers floating around, it would cost a fortune up front, but the long-term payout looked good.
Shayhidi felt confident that he could again bribe the man who supplied his last two tankers. In the maritime shipping business, Alexi Ogarkov was known as a truly venal man who was both revered and feared by his associates. For a seabag full of unmarked cash, Ogarkov would produce the two tankers.
The pair of matched limousines were just entering the Tripoli airport ramp when Shayhidi gazed at his sleek, gleaming new plane. The third limo was parked parallel to the leading edge of the left wing of the Boeing Business Jet. The driver was carrying several large shopping bags aboard the airplane while the slender supermodel waited in the coolness of the shiny limousine.
The immaculate BBJ was shimmering in the heat rising from the blistering pavement. Through the tinted glass of his limousine, Shayhidi took a moment to gaze at his latest symbol of wealth and power. A smile of satisfaction was beginning to form on Shayhidi's face when a GPS-guided Tomahawk cruise missile slammed into his airplanes fuselage directly over the right wing root.
The horrific, blinding explosion blew the refueled airplane in half, slinging flaming debris and burning fuel in every direction. A secondary explosion caused a brilliant fireball to rise straight up, turning into black smoke as it gained altitude.
Frozen in fear, Saeed Shayhidi was thrown forward violently into the empty seats when his startled chauffeur jammed the brake pedal to the floor. The second limousine driver braked hard and swerved in an attempt to avoid Shayhidi's automobile. A second too late, he plowed into the rear of Shayhidi's limo, sending both cars sliding out of control.
Waiting inside the airplane for Shayhidi to arrive, the two pilots, the flight attendant, and the limo driver perished in the initial explosion. A third, thunderous explosion completely enveloped the burning jet in reddish-orange flames and billowing clouds of black, oily smoke. More flaming debris rained down, hitting other airplanes and bouncing off the tops of the limousines.
A smaller corporate jet, about to taxi for takeoff, caught fire when its fuel tanks were punctured by large pieces of flaming shrapnel. The panicked passengers and flight crew immediately evacuated the Sabreliner 65 and raced for cover. Innocent victims on the ramp were running for their lives, some stumbling over others in their desperate attempt to escape the burning jet fuel.
Waiting in the limousine, Rachel Portinari survived the first two earth-shattering explosions, but the vibrant young woman succumbed to the third powerful detonation.
Shayhidi was shocked speechless. His most cherished possession had been destroyed right in front of his eyes. They know. The Americans must know I was behind the QM2--but how?
Without a thought for the condition of the model, his longtime pilots, and his flight attendant, Shayhidi climbed out of the limousine and ran toward the terminal building. His trio of senior managers and the astonished limo drivers fell in step behind him while pandemonium reigned at the airport.
When the men were safely inside the structure, Shayhidi could no longer contain his rage. He began ranting and raving at the top of his voice, cursing President Macklin and the U. S. military forces for destroying his new jet. After the better part of a minute, he assumed a more coherent manner and sat down.
"If we were twenty seconds earlier, I would have been killed," Shayhidi bitterly complained while he stared at the remains of his burning plane. Firefighters were working feverishly to quell the inferno. "I would have been in the plane."
The excruciating reality cascaded through his mind. The Americans will hunt me down. What do I do? Where do I go?
He turned to his senior managers. "Get a chartered jet in here and dont use my name--move!"
"Yes, sir," the threesome said in chorus. Like lemmings, the hollow-eyed men rushed off to comply with the order. The rumors about their boss's connections to terrorist groups enveloped them in a cloud of doubt. Was Shayhidi involved in the ocean liner disaster? If so, would this attack mean the end of their lucrative jobs, their luxurious lifestyles? Their boss was an unpredictable man when he was angry. Either way, they understood their future was suddenly at risk.
Still dumbfounded by the precision missile attack, Shayhidi forced himself to breathe slowly. Fear began to fade as feelings of utter hostility swept over him. Raising both hands to wipe his face, he became aware that his hands were shaking. He crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to appear calm and collected.
A pattern of illogical thoughts began co
nsuming him. The American president is going to rue the day he did this to me. I will show him what it is like to provoke Saeed Shayhidi.
SSN 768 HARTFORD
Operating in the depths of the eastern Mediterranean Sea, the Los Angeles-class attack submarine Hartford turned on course to the U. S. Naval Base at La Maddalena, a small Italian island located off the northern coast of the island of Sardinia. The submarine s actual destination was Santo Stefano, a rocky, uncultivated island that was the home port of the U. S. Navy submarine tender USS Emory S. Land.
La Maddalena was a tourist resort, and the crew of the Hartford was looking forward to a few days of liberty while their submarine was serviced and replenished. They had just completed a successful operation, one that greatly pleased their commander in chief. In a message to the crew, President Cord Macklin assured the submariners he would provide them with a replacement Tomahawk cruise missile.
Chapter 9.
GEORGETOWN
Taking an afternoon walk through the Heights section of Georgetown, Jackie and Scott were discussing their flight to Spokane. They were nearing home when they became aware that something unusual was happening. Neighbors and friends were congregating in the narrow old-fashioned streets. A buzz was definitely afloat.
"Wonder what's going on?" Jackie asked.
"I dont know, but somethings in the mill."
Scott heard a Georgetown University student exclaim, "Way to go, Prez. Kick butt big time!"
"Let's jog home," Scott suggested.
"Shayhidi, I'd guess," Jackie said, as they hit their stride. "Hartwell told us to watch for developments."
When they reached their residence, there was a phone message from Mary Beth. Jackie was listening to the secretary's recording when Scott turned on the television to see an image of a charred airplane and a picture of the owner.
Jackie turned to Scott. "Quick, turn up the sound. Have to hear this."
"Got it."
They sat in silence and watched the destruction of Shayhidi's aircraft. The video, which began after the initial explosion, was clear and well focused. The picture tilted sideways and jiggled when the second and third explosions rocked the ramp area. Shayhidi, his three employees, and the two drivers were clearly visible as they ran from the wrecked limousines toward the terminal building.
"I'll be damned," Scott said under his breath. "Hartwell was right on the money. Macklin didn't fool around."
Jackie was still staring at the television images. "Going for the jugular vein, no holding back."
Scott watched the replay of the second and third explosions. "I dont think anyone, especially Shayhidi, doubts Macklin's resolve now."
"They're fools if they do."
Scott shook his head. "I cant believe they missed him by a matter of seconds. Damn close."
She smiled with great satisfaction. "He clearly didn't expect the president to target him personally within two days of the QM Two disaster."
"Which means we re going to have a difficult time tracking him." Scott turned down the sound on the television. "He's going to vanish, but someone has to manage his empire on a daily basis. The recon people need to concentrate on his corporate headquarters, his various homes, and his toys."
"Doesn't he own a large yacht?" Jackie asked. "A mega-yacht?"
"Yes. That's going to be hard to hide."
"He should've bought a submarine," Jackie quipped.
"I'll bet he wishes he had a submersible about now." Scott's eyes kept darting to the television. "We can hit you anytime, anywhere."
"Look at this," she said, fascinated by the angry, twisted face on the television. With the burned-out hulk of the BBJ in the background, a dark-haired, mustachioed journalist was speaking with a shrill English accent and gesturing wildly with both arms.
Jackie watched the dramatic gestures for a few seconds. "They don't even know what hit Shayhidi's plane, but the local media is already claiming that President Macklin is actively trying to assassinate one of their highly respected businessmen."
Scott watched as the agitated journalist worked himself into a frenzy. "You have to give them credit," he said. "They have it right, and Shayhidi knows it." He changed channels for a fresh look at the breaking news. "From top dog on his flying carpet to sewer rat on the run, all in the flash of a Tomahawk."
"No kidding," Jackie said. "An unexpected ration of Tomahawk jurisprudence. Gotta love it."
GENEVA,SWITZERLAND
Rumpled, unshaven, and exhausted from a circuitous route home to Geneva, Saeed Shayhidi collapsed into his familiar king-sized bed for a few hours of precious rest. On his orders, every light in the residence was turned off and would remain that way.
The normal six-man home security detail had been increased to eleven. The two gates, one for the main entrance and the other for delivery service, were locked and guarded twenty-four hours a day. The home fortress was completely surrounded by electronic surveillance equipment and high-intensity motion-sensor lights. Two of the long-term security supervisors carried shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles.
Shayhidi's changes of chartered jets in Rome and Paris allowed him cover for the moment, but he knew he could not remain inconspicuous for long. He would have to go into hiding. That would require a great deal of in-depth planning, but first he needed rest. When he awoke, he would contact his second in command, Ahmed Musashi, and turn daily operations over to him. A secure system for communicating would have to be developed and implemented as soon as possible.
Shayhidi would now devote his full time and attention to completing his primary mission: driving the infidels and their military out of the Middle East. He was convinced beyond any doubt that his terrorist actions would soon have the American people crouching in fear. The naive citizens of the vaunted superpower were about to be tossed from their warm beds into the freezing blizzard of reality.
Shayhidi reasoned, based on four years of immersion in the culture of the United States, that it was only a matter of time before the undisciplined, self-pitying, immoral masses would be begging Macklin to remove the U. S. military from the Persian Gulf and the Middle East. From his experience in the hallowed halls of academia, Shayhidi was certain the elite governing class of intelligentsia in America would soon be demanding an end to the war on terrorism.
Shayhidi would triumph and the Middle Eastern dictators, constitutional monarchs, absolute monarchs, federations of monarchs, rulers, crowned heads, presidents-for-life, and other sponsors of terrorism would breathe a deep sigh of relief.
Democracy? Power exercised directly by the masses? No way, not in the Middle East. These "loyal" subjects could not be trusted to vote for their leaders and representatives. No, that would be disastrous for the Middle East. Western-style democracy would undermine thousands of years of tradition.
SPOKANE, WASHINGTON
When they landed their jet at Spokane International Airport, Jackie and Scott were warmly welcomed at Spokane Airways. Four uniformed security guards met them at the plane and vowed to take good care of their new Gulfstream 100.
As promised, the LongRanger IV helicopter was waiting, the weapons they had requested inside. They unloaded their bags from the G-100 and stowed them in the Bell 206L-4. In less than an hour they would rendezvous with the FBI special agent in Coeur dAlene.
The helicopter was painted bright yellow with black lettering that advertised SKY TOURS, INC. on the sides and the belly. Equipped with dual controls, the LongRanger had a two-person survival pack and two international orange survival suits in the passenger cabin.
Dressed in Banana Republic-style hiking shorts, boots, and denim shirts with epaulets and four gold stripes, Jackie and Scott gave the helicopter a thorough inspection and topped off the fuel. Minutes later, they were off to Coeur dAlene Air Terminal for their noon meeting. Approaching the quaint town, they watched a de Havilland Beaver seaplane land on sparkling Coeur dAlene Lake. Jackie radioed Resort Aviation Jet Center to order a taxi.
A line
tech was refueling the LongRanger when their taxi arrived. When the fueling was completed, Scott took care of the bill and they climbed into the backseat of the taxi.
"Welcome to Coeur dAlene," the driver said, turning to face his passengers. He showed them his FBI credentials. "I'm Special Agent Frank Wakefield." He extended his hand.
"It's a pleasure." Scott reached to shake Wakefield's hand. "I didn't realize you were working undercover."
Wakefield glanced in the rearview mirror. "It's the only way to stay on top of things around here. These folks dont trust anyone in a business suit."
When they arrived at the FBI's rustic headquarters, Jackie noted a man in bib overalls tending a small garden next to the run-down cabin. They followed Wakefield inside and sat down on a dusty, tattered couch.
The agent took a seat in an oil-stained rocking chair. "First of all, I don't know who you are or what you do. All I need to know is that we're all working on the terrorist situation, correct?"
"That's about it," Scott said.
Wakefield gently rocked the chair. "The majority of people think these terrorists are illiterate street people, but most of them are intelligent, well educated, highly trained, and shrewd--suicide bombers being the exception."
"We've had firsthand experience with some of the best," Scott said, in a flat voice.
"Okay, then you realize the need to appear to be who you aren't. Like I said, it's the only way to gather information."
"We've had some practice," Jackie said, making eye contact. "How are you differentiating between legal immigrants from the Middle East and the terrorists?"
"Our field agents are working with local law enforcement agencies to establish identities, citizenship, work histories, et cetera, but it isn't easy, legally speaking."
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