"You've got it," he said, relinquishing the controls. "Let's drop down and have a closer look."
She began a descent and slowed the helicopter. "The hangar looks nice, looks new."
Scott stowed the binoculars. "Too nice to be sitting next to a decaying cabin with an outhouse."
"The rusted Jeep Cherokee on blocks adds a nice touch," Jackie observed, leveling the helicopter 120 feet above the ground. "Want to land or make a low flyby?"
"Let's just continue on," he said, focusing his attention on the open hangar doors. "I'll be damned."
"What?"
"They have a B-25--they're closing the hangar doors."
"Want to land?" she asked again.
"Yes."
"Sure seems odd." She began her flare to land in front of the hangar. "Check out the new pickup."
"And the Harley Davidson motorcycles, expensive ones."
Jackie darted a look at the run-down residence. "Kind of incongruous to own a warbird and live in a shack like that."
"Uh-huh."
"Better leave our weapons in the helo," Jackie suggested.
"Probably should."
"What's our story?" she asked.
"We're delivering this to a tour company over at Sun Valley."
"And we're having a slight mechanical problem," she added. "Needed to make a precautionary landing."
"Spot on."
Jackie gently set the LongRanger on the ground and shut down the engine. "Are you sure it was a B-25?"
"I've seen Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo enough times to know how to build a B-25 Mitchell."
"Well," Jackie said with a raised eyebrow, "let's get ready for curtain call--see what we have."
They climbed out of the helicopter and walked innocently toward the hangar. When they were about thirty feet away from the entrance door on the right side, a grim-faced woman rounded the corner of the building.
Dressed in faded, baggy denim jeans, scuffed lace-up boots, and a sleeveless black leather jacket, she was a real showstopper. Tall and grossly overweight, the forty-something woman was missing a front tooth. She had an overbleached rat's-nest hairdo and sported a variety of tattoos on her flabby bare arms.
"Hello," Scott said with a friendly smile. "We--"
"You re trespassin on my propertee," she interrupted, in a cigarette-hoarse voice. "This here's private propertee, private airfield."
"We dont mean to intrude," Scott said, noticing a slender middle-aged man and his bulldog walk out on the front porch. They took a seat on a weathered couch, and the man laid a sawed-off shotgun across his lap.
Scott maintained a pleasant persona. "We re having a minor mechanical problem and we were wondering if we could borrow a few tools, happy to pay you for your trouble."
She folded her arms across her ample breasts and frowned. "We ain't got no tools. You best git back in that thang and git on outa here."
Jackie spotted someone looking out the window of the cabin and had an immediate reaction. "Uh, I think we can make it to Boise if we take it easy," she said to Scott, with a new urgency in her voice. "Lets move on."
"Yeah, okay." He glanced at the man on the porch and then faced the woman. "Sorry to bother you, ma am."
Jackie and Scott turned and walked toward their helicopter.
"Let's get the hell out of here," Jackie said, under her breath.
"What's the deal?"
"I'll tell you when we get airborne," she mumbled.
When the engine came on line, she quickly brought the LongRanger to a hover and accelerated down the grass strip. "Did you see the guy looking out the window?"
"No, what guy?"
"Farkas or his twin brother."
"You're serious?"
"Serious as a heart attack." She began a gradual climb, heading south. "I wonder why he didn't try to take us out?"
"Probably because he has bigger plans: the B-25. He didn't want to take a chance on having something go wrong."
Scott grabbed the satellite phone and called Frank Wakefield, told him what happened, and gave him the specific GPS coordinates for the grass airstrip. After consulting with someone on another phone, Wakefield confirmed that he would organize and direct an FBI raid in the wee hours of the morning.
Scott signed off and placed the satellite phone down. "Well, the ball is rolling. Frank is familiar with Khaliq Farkas. Whatever is going on in that hangar, they sure dont want any attention."
Jackie made a minor heading change to go directly to the Boise Air Terminal. "I think we should keep an eye on the place until the FBI gets there, refuel, and watch the place from a safe distance."
"That isn't a bad idea, except for two things."
"Farkas and the black of night," she guessed.
"Yup," he said, noting the grass airstrip was not on their chart. "If that was Farkas, we've already tipped our hand."
"I'm ninety-five percent sure it was Farkas."
"I don't doubt you," he said evenly "Echelon Two tracked his e-mail to the Idaho-Utah area."
"Yes, and we know he has a penchant for warbirds." She leveled the LongRanger and adjusted the power. "Location, a door hurriedly shut on a B-25 bomber, the cold reception, and the face of Farkas or a lookalike." She turned to him and removed her sunglasses. "Seriously, what if it is Farkas and we allow him to get away?"
"Uh, let's see. I believe it was none other than the president's national security adviser who told us not to act unilaterally." He glanced at her and smiled. "Correct statement?"
"Yes, that's right."
Scott tuned the radio to Boise Approach Control. "The FBI has been notified. That's precisely what we're supposed to do."
"Follow orders," she said, with a chuckle. "That's a unique concept."
THE NEW HANGAR
Having recognized Jackie Sullivan and Scott Dalton, Khaliq Farkas was in a near panic. The realization that his mission might be compromised before he could carry it out was unthinkable. A lot of time and money had gone into setting up the operation.
Saeed Shayhidi was adamant about this particular aspect of the jihad against the United States. It was the centerpiece of his entire plan, the idea Shayhidi had so strongly endorsed. He could not fail in his mission, no matter what obstacles he might face.
"Hurry up!" Farkas said to the two mechanics. "Get the airplane out of the hangar. Move it!"
Farkas barked a succession of orders to the men and then hurriedly climbed aboard the bomber while they were positioning it on the small ramp. As soon as the tug was disconnected from the B-25, Farkas started the powerful Wright Cyclone radial engines. Each 14cylinder air-cooled power plant started with a belch of grayish-white smoke and then settled into a rhythmic loud rumble.
Although he wanted to get airborne as quickly as possible, Farkas knew it was essential to warm the engines and stabilize the oil pressures and temperatures. Unlike turboprops or turbofans, which could be started and immediately shoved to full power, the old radials needed tender loving care and understanding. Farkas could not afford a blown engine, not this close to executing his plan.
Once he was satisfied the engines were ready, he taxied to the end of the grass strip. He carefully ran through the before-takeoff checklist, made sure the transponder was off, then came up on the power and released the brakes. Much earlier than he planned, Farkas was on his way to the forward operating airport.
Airborne, he raised the landing gear and retracted the flaps. He set the power at a conservative level and began a slow climb, preferring to keep his speed up. As the minutes ticked away, he began to breathe normally, though he was not completely relaxed. Farkas had never flown the Mitchell at night and he had never flown to this particular airport. I have to get this right My reputation--my life--is on the line.
LAKE CHARLES, LOUISIANA.
Twenty minutes after the stroke of midnight, an unlighted helicopter dropped three high-powered explosives on the Citgo refinery six miles southwest of Lake Charles on Highway 108. A steady series of e
xplosions rocked the countryside, and a firestorm quickly enveloped three-quarters of the 600-acre refinery.
Windows were blown out for miles around the complex, and huge plumes of dense smoke eclipsed the moon. Most people, still reeling from the deadly Queen Mary 2 assault and the terrorist attacks on the nuclear power plants and the White House, did not doubt this was another massive assault by the terrorists.
The series of ground-shaking blasts and secondary explosions destroyed the plants self-contained firefighting system. Chaos ruled at the refinery while firefighting units responded from Lake Charles, New Orleans, and Lafayette, Louisiana. Other teams were dispatched from as far away as Port Arthur and Beaumont, Texas.
In an ironic twist, the initial blast had been so powerful it literally knocked the low-flying helicopter out of the air, killing the Iranian pilot and his accomplice.
During the next eighteen minutes, similar attacks were carried out at Valeros Texas City refinery located on the Texas City Ship Channel and Chevrons refinery near El Segundo, California.
In all, U. S. petroleum production was instantly and violently reduced by approximately 950,000 barrels per day, a severe blow to the energy industry and to the American economy.
NATIONAL AIRBORNE OPERATIONS CENTER
The E-4B flying command post known as Night Watch was being refueled by a USAF KC-135 tanker when President Macklin received the disheartening news about the refineries. Angry and frustrated by having to react to events instead of attacking the enemy, the president had Hartwell Prost and Pete Adair awakened to join General Chalmers and himself.
Fresh coffee and juice were being served when the men gathered in the conference room. The mood was somber, with anger boiling just below the surface.
Chalmers gave his boss and Prost a thorough update on the refineries and the efforts being made to bring the fires under control. Then he sadly updated them on the situation at the Indian Point Nuclear Power Plant in New York. Thousands of people had been evacuated from the area. Reactor experts expected to be able to contain the leaking fission products in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.
The president was red-faced. "Gentlemen," he said impatiently, "we know they used helicopters to bomb the refineries. We have scores of eyewitnesses and a crashed helicopter containing the bodies of two foreign nationals. How in hell did this happen when we Ye in such a high state of readiness?"
No one had an answer.
"Where were the AWACS?" Macklin asked. He was growing more irritated by the minute. "How can we have so much air cover and these people aren t detected?"
Chalmers took the hot seat. "Sir, I believe the helicopters, transponders off, were moving slow and low to the ground. Un-lighted, they could have followed the interstate, blending in with the traffic. They can mimic ground vehicles, make right-hand turns, and follow the roads instead of flying a straight line that would give them away."
The president was not convinced.
"He's right," Pete Adair interjected, aware they were being tested. "If you re flying a helo directly over heavy traffic in nighttime conditions, at the same speed, its practically impossible to determine what s rolling and what s flying--unless you have eyes on it."
Macklin raised a hand, palm out, fingers spread. Tm not going to debate whether it can be done or cannot be done. It happened, and I'm damn teed off about it." He slammed his fist on the table. "Fm tired of reacting!"
The president paused, took in a deep breath, and lowered his voice. "First on my list is immediate and complete protection for our refineries, same as with the nuclear power plants. I dont care if we have to double or triple the CAPS, have combat air patrols swarming over every priority."
The president glanced at Prost and Adair. "I know we have a helluva lot of operating refineries and this isn t going to be easy, but we have to use every resource available--redouble our efforts."
"We 11 get it done," Prost said, as an aide brought him a briefing folder and quietly left the cabin. He skimmed over the contents and closed his eyes for a moment.
"What is it, Hartwell?" Macklin asked.
"Reliable sources in the French media saw Saeed Shayhidi being helped ashore after his yacht sank. They even have pictures of him in his wet pajamas. The growing speculation among European and Arab newshounds is that the U. S. military was direcdy involved."
"They're going to have a lot more to speculate about." The president tapped the end of his pen on the table. "I want recommendations. How do we get this asshole Shayhidi?"
As he usually did, Prost assumed the lead, thinking out loud. "He has a fleet of thirty-seven cargo ships and oil tankers. If he wont respond out of fear for his life, maybe hell respond when we hit him in the wallet."
Macklin raised an approving eyebrow.
Prost handed the president a briefing folder. "Here is a list of all his ships: their names, classification as to cargo or tanker, and where most of them are located at the present time."
"Impressive. You've really been doing your homework."
"Actually, my staff has been doing it for me. The information just arrived about twenty minutes ago."
Prost waited until Macklin thoroughly perused the data. "Sir, I recommend we immediately begin reducing his ship inventory and keep reducing it until he caves in and calls off his terrorists."
"Or," Chalmers said dryly, "until Shayhidi has np assets to continue funding the attacks: terrorism in general."
Adair nodded his consent. "I would also add freezing his accounts at the financial institutions on our list. And while we're at it, let's go after his vacation homes, his primary residence in Geneva, and his office building there."
Prost looked at the president. "We have the coordinates of his residences, all of them."
"How current is your data?" Macklin asked, remembering the Chinese embassy blunder.
"Less than six hours old. But Shayhidi isn't at any of them at the moment. I think we should accomplish these goals from the ground. We don't want to risk a Tomahawk or two going off course and hitting a nursing home or elementary school."
"Les?" the president asked.
"I agree with Secretary Adair, and Mr. Prost is right on target. But we don't want to peck away at Shayhidi. This has to be a concerted, organized effort to bring him to his knees quickly--or kill him--before we have massive casualties in our country."
Prost gave a nod of approval.
Chalmers reached for his coffee cup. "We have to use every available asset we have, including our special ops forces: Army Rangers, Green Berets, Pathfinders, Delta Force, and Navy SEALS. They did an outstanding job in Afghanistan and Iraq."
Macklin saw Prost cock his head. "You have a question?"
"No, sir," Prost said. "I just want to underscore what General Chalmers has suggested. We must conduct these operations as covertly as humanly possible. Keep them under the radarscopes, especially the scopes on Capitol Hill."
Pete Adair piped up. "Jesus, Hartwell, our homeland is under siege. We cant be worried about what other people think. We didnt throw the first punch, but we can damn sure throw the last one."
"What I'm saying"--Prost went on calmly--"is that we dont have to overcompensate and use a sledgehammer on a gnat. We re going to be deep-sixing unarmed civilian ships. Lets do it in a surgical way to save as many lives as possible. Nor can we afford to sink oil tankers and pollute the oceans. We'll have to sabotage them in port so they cant get under way--SEAL teams, gentlemen."
"Hartwell is right," Macklin said, contemplating the titillating aspects of destroying Shayhidi's assets. "We have to be smart, we have to be quick, and we have to do it right the first time."
Prost removed his glasses. "Sir, can you give us a couple of hours to put together a specific target list and decide how to best carry out the operations?"
"You have it," the president said. "Operation Stopgap. Get back to me when you're ready."
"Yes, sir."
Chapter 14.
BOISE, IDAHO
Jackie sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the short but lively conversation. Scott was clearly agitated when he signed off.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"When Wakefields team went in early this morning, there was no trace of the B-25, zip'point-nothing. The hangar was empty, and no one was around except Ma and Pa Kettle."
"Well, we shouldn't be surprised," she declared. "Farkas offered the charming couple a pot of cash to erect a hangar and set up shop to continue his assault on our country."
"Then we showed up and he bolted," Scott said in frustration. "I should've stressed the immediacy of the situation to Wakefield."
"Look, we did what we were supposed to do." She rose from the bed and walked over to him, taking his face in her hands. "Remember, you're the one who gave me the lecture about following Hartwell's instructions."
"Yes, and Farkas got away." Scott buttoned his shirt. "This will come back to haunt us. I have a gut feeling."
"Next time, we act swiftly," she reassured him.
"If there is a next time."
Jackie reached for her luggage. "Somehow, I'm sure there will be a next time. There always is when we're dealing with Farkas."
They checked out of the hotel and drove their rental car to the Boise Air Terminal/Gowen Field. Passing through the Western Aircraft FBO, Jackie loaded their luggage and completed a preflight on the LongRanger while Scott turned in their rental car. He soon joined Jackie in the helicopter.
After the engine was started, she checked with Clearance Delivery and received a new transponder code. Things were getting back to normal in the world of general aviation.
She called the control tower and received permission to take off from the joint-use civilian/military airfield.
"You ready?" Jackie asked.
Scott tightly cinched his straps. "All set."
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