"Racial profiling?" Scott asked.
"Yes, but we're catching quite a few with bogus credentials and a variety of weapons. We try to keep it low-key and get them out of the immediate area as quickly as possible."
Jackie glanced out the window at the agent working in the garden. "From what we understand, this invasion of terrorists extends all the way to the Twin Falls area."
"That's the official line, but we've seen activity and problems branch out in quite a few directions. The primary trail seems to go through Salt Lake City into southern Utah near Cedar City. But Salt Lake City is a dispersal point; from there they go in various directions, sometimes backtracking to head in a different direction."
"How tight is the border?" Scott asked.
A hard look crossed Wakefields face. "The addition of the military units has helped, especially the elite forces and their stealth operations. But the heavy concentration of military equipment in some areas is like sending up a flare."
Jackie was becoming anxious to get airborne and begin their search before they ran out of daylight. "Anything else you can tell us?"
"No, not much else, but I have a packet for you." He rose and walked to a wooden desk, picked up a waterproof container, and handed it to Jackie. "You'll find phone numbers, radio frequencies, locations of our command posts and the joint operations center, plus other info you may need. We're big on communications and keeping one another in the loop."
"You can count on us," Jackie said, without expression.
Wakefield's curiosity needed to be satisfied. "You are with the government, right? Some extension of the CIA or DEA?"
She smiled and tilted her head. "Actually, we're not with the government. No connection."
He tried to conceal his surprise. "Well, my orders came from the top, so that's all I need to know. How can I get in touch with you?"
Jackie gave him the codes for their satellite phones. "The first one is our primary means of communicating."
"Great," he said, and pocketed the piece of paper.
Scott rose from the couch. "We appreciate your help. Thanks."
"Happy to do it." The hard look returned. "As I'm sure you know, a lot of these terrorists are ruthless zealots from many different countries. Some are certified nutcases who look forward to dying. Even the most harmless-looking person could be a mass murderer, so don't let your guard down for a second."
Scott extended his hand. "Your point is well taken."
Wakefield gave him a firm handshake. "I'll have my gardener drive you back to the airport."
"Appreciate it."
When Jackie lifted the LongRanger off the ramp, Scott noticed four marine corps AH-1W Super Cobra attack helicopters preparing to land.
He pointed to the gunships. "Looks like they're bringing in some heavy firepower."
Jackie answered a radio call from the control tower before turning to Scott. "After all that's happened, I'd say it's time to project power."
They flew at a leisurely pace while Scott used his binoculars to survey the terrain. The closer they came to the Canadian border, the more helicopters and airplanes they encountered.
Scott raised his binoculars and focused on an army UH-1H Huey helicopter hovering over a road. "We sure have a strange mix of civilian and military aircraft clustered in the same area."
Jackie checked to her right and banked the helo into a sweeping turn. "We'll try another route back."
She remained fifteen miles east of the Washington border until they were closer to Coeur d'Alene. Low on fuel, they landed and stretched their legs. After refueling, they headed north again and searched an area south of the Canadian border and west of the Montana line.
They made another fuel stop at the tourist town of Sandpoint and then flew over picturesque Lake Pend Oreille. Hundreds of blue herons were perched in the backwater reeds, and a bull moose meandered close to the placid lake. When they reached the Coeur d'Alene National Forest, Jackie made a minor course change to the east and began a gradual descent. They covered another twelve miles and decided it was becoming too dark to see much in the thick forest canopy.
Scott was about to stow his binoculars when he spotted a small campfire. "Make a three-sixty to the left." The glow suddenly disappeared. "Someone just put out his fire."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive." He glanced at the GPS coordinates and kept his binoculars on the same spot. "Bring it around into a hover about--coming up at your one o'clock, sixty to seventy yards."
"You're seeing things."
"I know what I saw--hey, there's movement down there!"
The LongRanger was slowing to a hover when two rifle rounds shattered the helicopter's chin bubble.
"Go--go--hit it!" Scott said, as Jackie lowered the nose and pulled maximum power.
"Seeing things?" Scott asked with a dash of sarcasm. He opened the plastic packet Wakefield had given them.
"Did you notice the GPS?" she asked.
"Yeah, got it nailed." Scott used the satellite phone to contact Wakefield. He explained what happened, gave him the coordinates of the campsite, and signed off. "They're on it as we speak."
"Well," Jackie said, with a wide-eyed look, "I think that's enough excitement for one day, at least for me."
"Yeah. Let's stay in Coeur d'Alene tonight."
Jackie surveyed the minor damage their helicopter sustained. "Almost seven hours, par for the course."
"What?"
She glanced at him and smiled. "We haven't had the helo for a full day and it's already damaged."
He shrugged and studied the ragged holes. "We'll get some duct tape and patch the holes, keep the breeze from blowing through."
COEUR D'ALENE, IDAHO
Returning to Coeur d'Alene's signature resort, Scott and Jackie walked around for a few minutes to cool down after their three-mile jog. He pulled a quarter out of a pocket in his hiking shorts and flipped it. "Your call."
"Tails."
He caught the coin and slapped it on the back of his hand. They peeked at the results.
"You get the shower first," Scott said, as they entered their luxurious room.
After they were refreshed, Jackie opened her flight bag and retrieved the GREAT FALLS and SALK LAKE CITY sectional charts. "I think we need to use a search grid."
"Makes sense to take a methodical approach. We know Farkas is out here somewhere; we just have to find him."
She nodded and moved the floor lamp closer to the table. "Yeah, we know what he can do with an airplane or a dozen aircraft radios." Jackie neatly folded the GREAT FALLS chart into a small manageable square. "I think we should be airborne as early as possible. Okay with you?"
"Absolutely."
The satellite phone rang. As Scott answered it, Jackie began working on the chart with a colored marker. She wanted to check every out-of-the-way airport along the route to southern Utah. She drew a straight line to Cedar City and began studying the remote airports along the way.
Scott finished his conversation and sprawled across the bed. "That was Wakefield. It wasn't Farkas or any other terrorist who shot at us."
"Oh, really?" she asked skeptically. "How can he be so sure?"
Scott rolled onto his back. "The terrorists aren't into Miller Beer, Red Man chewing tobacco, or brochures for the local militia."
"Okay, who was it?"
"Wakefield thinks they were local good ol' boys--some drunken moron got trigger happy."
"Great. Can't wait for tomorrow."
Chapter 10.
ALBANY, NEW YORK
Omar Abdul-Baasit, Servant of the Extender, Creator, and his Saudi Arabian copilot, Uthman ibn Abd al-Wahhab, had flown the Bombardier Challenger 601-1A into Albany International Airport the previous evening. Like other corporate pilots, Abdul-Baasit chatted with the line service technicians while the copilot installed the engine covers. After the aircraft was secured for the evening, al-Wahhab hailed a taxi to the bus station. He would return to his rented home in Pittsbu
rgh, Pennsylvania, and remain in the sleeper cell until his next mission was assigned.
Abdul-Baasit, along with twenty-two other specially selected flight students from the Middle East, had spent eleven months at various flight schools in Arizona, Texas, North Dakota, and Florida. They collectively terminated their training on September 6, 2001, and went to work for Shayhidi-controlled charities and businesses in Florida, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey, and Maryland.
More experienced and knowledgeable than the suicide pilots who destroyed the World Trade Center and damaged the Pentagon, Abdul-Baasit and his fellow sleepers would not have to rely on hijacking airplanes to complete their missions. Besides, the possibility of commandeering U. S. airliners after September 11 was substantially diminished, if not all but eliminated.
Shayhidi paid over $3.4 million for the in-depth aviation training, including housing, essentials, and generous periodic stipends to the flight students. To Shayhidis great delight, the time had finally arrived to begin capitalizing on his considerable financial investment. Abdul-Baasit and others like him were ready to carry out their missions.
Following explicit instructions direcdy from Khaliq Farkas, Abdul-Baasit slept in the corporate jet. Minutes before sunrise, Abdul-Baasit would file his flight plan with the FBO and order all the jet fuel the airplane could hold.
This particular Challenger 601 (N301EP) was quite different from standard versions of the twin-engine jet. Like many large transports once used by U. S. airlines and later sold to Latin American airlines and cargo operators, used corporate jets found homes in South America. Aircraft sales south of the U. S. border, and the modifications made to those airplanes, received little or no scrutiny.
During the past seventy days, 301EP was transformed into a flying armored tank. The radical change was not noticeable from the exterior, but the interior was unlike any other Challenger in the world. The inside of the jet was gutted, and heavy steel braces were welded together in a strong latticework. A sturdy bulkhead at the entrance to the airplane disguised the contents of the large cabin.
Combined with the seven barrels of fuel oil and the array of explosives on board, the myriad beams were so heavy the jet weighed only slightly less than its maximum gross weight of 43,100 pounds. With full fuel, the Challenger would weigh approximately 57,700 pounds.
Abdul-Baasit, having never flown the reconfigured plane with a full fuel load, was going to be a test pilot in the next thirty minutes. Would he need every inch of the 7,200-foot runway to get airborne, or would he need a lot more room to take off?
Feeling supremely confident, he went into the FBO, filed his instrument flight plan to Philadelphia, and ordered full fuel for the Challenger. The suicide bomber removed the engine covers while he oversaw the fueling. When 1,800 gallons had been pumped into the aircraft, the tires and landing gear were beginning to show the strain.
Abdul-Baasit thought about stopping the fueling at 1,900 gallons, but Farkas had made it clear: The jet must carry every ounce of fuel that could be squeezed in and not a drop less. The Challenger was going to be a huge bomb with wings, the "wings of death," as Farkas stated so strongly on many occasions.
When the fueling was completed, Abdul-Baasit paid his bill, started the powerful engines, and listened to the ATIS. He called Clearance Delivery, received his instrument clearance to Philadelphia International Airport, called Ground Control, and taxied toward Runway 19.
No one noticed that he was flying the jet single pilot, a major violation of FAA mandates. Seven tons over maximum gross weight, the Challenger felt sluggish and required more power than usual to taxi.
He keyed the radio. "Albany Tower, Challenger Three Zero One Echo Papa, ready for takeoff."
"Challenger Three Zero One Echo Papa, taxi into position and hold."
"Position and hold, Zero One Echo Papa."
While he waited for a twin-engine Piper Navajo to clear the active runway, Abdul-Baasit aligned his jet with the runway centerline and came to an abrupt stop.
"Challenger Three Zero One Echo Papa cleared for takeoff."
Abdul-Baasit read back the clearance. He held the brakes and added 60 percent power, released the brakes, and shoved the throttles forward. The airplane slowly accelerated while the engines howled at full thrust. Abdul-Baasit knew an aborted takeoff would be disastrous, but the lack of acceleration was alarming.
He would have to make a critical decision in the next few seconds. Live or die? Succeed or fail? With only 3,000 feet of runway remaining, and the speed still creeping upward, he had a moment of doubt. Can t fail--won't fail. Committed to flight, Abdul-Baasit stopped looking at the airspeed indicator.
He waited until the last 300 feet of runway to rotate the nose to its normal takeoff attitude. The Challenger staggered into the air, touched down briefly, and then slowly climbed away from the ground. Abdul-Baasit snapped the landing gear up and coaxed the jet to ascend at 400 feet per minute, an anemic performance for an airplane of its caliber.
Watching the takeoff, the tower controller knew something was wrong. "Challenger Three Zero One Echo Papa, are you experiencing a problem?"
"Zero One Echo Papa is having a pressurization problem," Abdul-Baasit lied. "Well have it corrected in a minute or two."
"Roger. Contact Departure Control on one-one-eight point zero-five."
"Eighteen point zero-five, One Echo Papa."
Abdul-Baasit contacted departure, let the airspeed build, and slowly increased the rate of climb. The departure controller soon handed off the Challenger to the en-route controller. Approaching 14,000 feet, Abdul-Baasit requested a level off to allow the airspeed to increase. He finally nursed the struggling airplane to 22,000 feet and requested to maintain that altitude. The controller granted his request.
A few minutes later, Abdul-Baasit reported smoke in the cockpit. Following his well-rehearsed plan, he turned the radio volume down, tuned his transponder to 7700 (Emergency) for one minute, and then changed the code to 7600 (Communication Failure).
Abdul-Baasit had flown this same route four times in light planes, and he was extremely familiar with the landmarks. He passed his final checkpoint and began a fairly steep descent, accelerating to Mach 0.85, the maximum Mach number for the airplane.
Flying the heavy Challenger by hand, Abdul-Baasit spotted his target dead ahead on the bank of the Hudson River. He continued to tweak the jets nose lower and lower until the planes attitude was 45 percent nose down. He ignored the chattering Mach "knocker" as the Challenger quickly accelerated to Mach 0.89.
His throat was dry, but he was in the zone now, focused on his final mission. Omar Abdul-Baasit never blinked as he bracketed his target twenty-nine miles north of New York City. Feeling a tingling sense of euphoria, the pitiless fool took in a deep breath and let out a piercing scream. Two seconds later the Bombardier Challenger slammed into the Indian Point Unit 2 Nuclear Power Plant. The incredible kinetic energy created an explosion that registered between 3 and 4 on the Richter scale of several seismographs in the area.
THE PENTAGON
CNN Pentagon correspondent Christine DeSano was about to deliver an update on the condition of the aircraft carrier USS Harry Truman when a flurry of activity interrupted her. Someone offscreen was loudly forwarding breaking news, so Christine tossed the telecast back to the anchor in the studio.
Less than a minute later, the grim-faced DeSano was back live. "We re receiving initial reports that a nuclear power plant, the Indian Point Unit Two, twenty-some miles north of Manhattan, exploded only minutes ago."
She was reading from notes handed to her. "There are conflicting reports on what caused the blast. We understand there are casualties and a large number of injuries."
Another note was held up in her view. "Were . . . just a moment . . . okay: A fireman, apparently at the scene, believes a bomb may have done the damage. That has not been confirmed at this time, but an official believes a bomb, possibly a terrorist-made bomb, may have gone off."
"Colonel," DeSano said, thrusting the microphone toward him, "can you tell us what happened at the Indian Point nuclear plant?"
"From what were hearing, and its preliminary, an airplane may have struck the power plant. Sorry, have to run."
Frowning, DeSano faced the camera. "Jim, I've just been told by a senior officer that an airplane, possibly another hijacked airliner, struck the nuclear facility. Were looking at another possible series of airline hijackings or worse. Back to you, Jim."
AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL SYSTEM COMMAND CENTER
Located at Herndon, Virginia, near Dulles International Airport, in an impressive 29,ooo-square-foot building, the Air Traffic Control Command Center serves as the nerve center for the busy US. air traffic control system. Alert for any possible threat or conflict, FAA specialists constantly monitor air traffic, departure delays, and weather conditions nationwide. Networked with the NORAD complex and the joint FAA/Defense Department Air Traffic Services Cell, the Herndon controllers work with the Air Route Traffic Control Centers to help keep the complex system in harmony and flowing smoothly and safely.
After the four airline hijackings on Black Tuesday altered the course of U. S. aviation history, FAA authorities implemented new operating procedures at the command center. The time from the discovery of suspicious actions to alerting NORAD, the North American Aerospace Defense Command, was minimized.
NORAD is a unified U. S. and Canadian command charged with the missions of aerospace warning and aerospace control for North America. Commanded by a senior four-star officer, NORAD is the front line of detection and defense against air and space threats to the United States and Canada. Buried deep inside Cheyenne Mountain near Colorado Springs, Colorado, the complex replaced NORADS previous vulnerable aboveground facilities in a converted hospital at Ent Air Force Base, Colorado Springs.
This morning the air traffic controllers were frantically trying to confirm what kind of plane hit the Indian Point nuclear power plant. One report said a regional jet airliner crashed into the reactor. Other reports from en-route controllers indicated a Bombardier Challenger corporate jet hit the plant.
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