She added power and pulled up on the collective. The main rotor lift overcame their weight and the LongRanger slowly rose from the ramp. Seconds later, at a height of nine feet, the helicopter went violently out of control.
Jackie aggressively fought the controls, but it was too late to salvage the landing. "Hang on--were going in!"
The helicopter rotated horizontally and tipped over at the same time, ripping the two main rotor blades to shreds. The LongRanger crashed on the ramp and beat itself to pieces while Jackie frantically worked to shut down the engine.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the loud scraping and grinding sounds ceased and the machine came to a quiet halt. Stunned by the sudden teeth-rattling crash, Scott unstrapped from his seat and helped Jackie out of the twisted wreckage.
Both had minor scrapes and bruises, but the helicopter had taken the brunt of the crash. It was strike damage, totally destroyed except for a few components. From all directions, people were running toward the crumpled LongRanger. In the distance a crash truck was heard barreling down the taxiway toward the downed helicopter.
Scott looked at the crumpled wreckage and stepped away from the growing pool of jet fuel flowing across the ramp. "What went wrong?"
Before she could answer, the senior line service technician from the FBO rushed up to them. "Are you okay?"
Jackie and Scott assured him they were fine.
The young man stared at the crushed and mangled helicopter. "I guess your mechanics mustve made a mistake."
"Mechanics?" Scott looked confused. "What mechanics?"
The technician was taken aback. "Them two guys who drove in late last night and worked on your chopper."
Scott and Jackie darted a look at each other.
"Fred, the night manager, told me 'bout the guys before he left this mornin. Said they was kinda strange."
"Did Fred know the men?" Jackie asked.
"Naw. He said they was drivin a small Ford pickup. Parked it right next to your chopper."
Scott stopped to address the onlookers. "Folks, we don't want to disturb the accident site until the NTSB people get here." The small crowd disbursed and Scott turned to the technician. "I didn't catch your name."
"Jimmy Parker."
"Jimmy, did Fred ask the men what they were doing?"
"I dunno, maybe you should talk to Fred." The young man grew hesitant, sensing something was wrong. "Fred said they was gone in 'bout fifteen minutes, maybe less."
"Okay, thanks."
Jackie and Scott exchanged another look before the crash crew arrived. They talked with the senior crew member while the other men hosed down the ramp to disperse the jet fuel.
When the crash crew left, Jackie caught sight of Jimmy Parker standing a few feet away. "Let's continue chatting with our new friend."
"You bet, just getting to the good part."
When Parker saw the couple approaching him, he turned and walked in their direction.
Jackie greeted him with a friendly smile. "Jimmy, you said the people who worked on our two-oh-six were strange?"
Parker lowered his voice and cast his eyes down. "Well, Fred said they was foreigners, A-rabs, but they spoke English pretty good."
"Two Middle Eastern men?" Scott asked.
"That's what Fred said."
"Did Fred tell you anything else?"
"Nope, that's 'bout it."
Realizing there was nothing else to be learned from Parker, Scott surveyed the crash site. "Jimmy, do you have anything we can rope off the wreckage with?"
"You mean like that yellow crime scene tape?"
"Sure, whatever you have," Scott said with a smile. "Oh, by the way, have you heard anything about a B-25 bomber being flown around here?"
Parker's eyes opened wide. "Yeah, what's goin' on with that deal?"
"What have you heard?" Scott asked.
"An instructor, Pam Bowers, and her student saw a B-25 Ay real low and fast near Payette 'bout sundown last night." He raised his baseball cap up and firmly clamped it over his mussed hair. "We don't see that kind of thing often, old warbirds flyin around."
"Did they say in which direction it was headed?" Scott asked.
"Southeast toward Twin Falls. That's what everyone was talkin 'bout this mornin when I come in from breakfast."
"Thanks, Jimmy, we appreciate it," Scott said, and shook his hand. "Do you have a business card?"
"Yes, sir," he said with pride, and gave Scott his card. "If you need anything, let me know."
"We'll do it. You've been helpful."
Parker was confused and it showed in his eyes. "Is there somethin goin on, somethin wrong we should know about?"
"No, nothing wrong," Scott assured him. "I heard the same rumor about the B-25. Just curious."
While Parker made arrangements to secure the helicopter, Jackie and Scott removed their personal belongings from the wreckage. They were careful to make sure their weapons were safely zipped in canvas bags and not visible to the bystanders.
After they piled everything a safe distance from the helicopter, she closely inspected the flight control system. It was evident that the actuators on the main rotor had been tampered with, but it would not have been noticeable from the ground. The tail rotor was so badly damaged that it was impossible to tell if it had been sabotaged.
Jackie picked up a piece of the shattered main rotor blade and curiously studied it. "In retrospect, telling Ma and Pa Kettle we were going to Boise was a bonehead move."
"Well, it's too late for hindsight. We've managed to live through another character-building' experience." He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. "Are you okay, really okay?"
"I feel great. I'm still alive . . . what more could I ask?"
"It wasn't your fault." He glanced at the wreckage. "I'm just glad we weren't three hundred feet in the air."
"Yeah, that wouldn't have been a pretty sight." She dropped the piece of shredded wreckage on the ramp.
Scott noticed Jimmy Parker was in the process of isolating the LongRanger from the onlookers. "Most likely, Farkas flew the B-25 south to another airfield and a couple of his partners did this job."
"What he plans to do with a B-25 is ^ big question," Jackie said. "The obvious thing that comes to mind is what or who is he going to bomb?"
"That's the question," Scott mused. "It is a bomber, and we have six missing nukes."
"That's a cheerful thought. I better go initiate the dog-and-pony show with the Feds."
"If there's any static from the Gestapo, call Hartwell and have him take care of the Feds."
"I can handle it," she said firmly. "I've dealt with the FAA before."
Scott glanced at a Cessna Caravan amphibian floatplane sitting on the edge of the ramp. "As soon as you finish your rug dance with the Feds, we need to hit the road."
She looked exasperated. "Hit the road in what?"
"A new flying machine." He pointed in the direction of the big single-engine turboprop. "The Cessna Caravan sitting over there. It belongs to the FBO."
"How do you know?"
"I asked last night when I was getting our car. They use it for sightseeing and hauling fishing parties."
"And?"
"It's not making any money at the moment," he said, with an air of certitude. "I'll see if they'll rent it to us."
"Right, you can bet on it." Jackie's smile made a short appearance. "I'm sure they'll be jumping with joy after we just crashed on their ramp." She paused, placing her hands on her hips. "Say, Mr. FBO manager, could we try again with one of your flying machines?" She lowered her voice. "Sure thing, folks. Are you two just learning to fly ... or are you just naturally uncoordinated?"
"Hey, I have my seaplane rating," Scott said with confidence. "If they wont rent it, well buy it."
"Better get in touch with Hartwell first. I dont need to remind you, this is not a good time to bother him."
"Well." Scott paused and again glanced at the Caravan.
"He said were on our own, have to improvise every now and then."
"This should be good."
"You can laugh, but look at my track record."
"Whatever you do, dont dare mention your track record," she deadpanned. "Otherwise, well be walking."
Scott smiled and started toward the FBO.
THE ALYSSA LANGFORD
One of the newest containerships owned by Saeed Shayhidi, the 1,024-foot Alyssa Langford, was 170 miles southeast of her destination, Charleston, South Carolina, one of the chief ports on the Adantic Coast. Carrying a full load of twenty-foot containers, and powered by a single twelve-cylinder 75,000-horsepower diesel engine, the merchant ship was making a steady 21.4 knots.
The crew of fifteen had finished lunch, and many of them were preparing for their visit to the historic city. They were looking forward to a dose of Southern hospitality, lots of cold beer, and plenty of fried chicken with all the trimmings. Charleston, a major center of southern culture, was a favorite port for many seafarers, foreign and domestic.
The master was in his quarters taking a nap when a loud explosion awakened him. The ship shuddered from stem to stern. The captain, fully awake in an instant, ran to the bridge. He ordered ALL STOP on the engine while he stared at the heavily damaged bow.
His mind raced, but nothing made sense. It was difficult to comprehend that someone had deliberately torpedoed them. But there was no denying the fact unless they had hit a mine or something inside the ship exploded. Not a mine, he argued with himself.
No matter what the cause, the master knew Alyssa Langford was in serious trouble. He began broadcasting a Mayday signal, which included their GPS position. The ship was taking on water at an alarming rate and was beginning to list.
When the first tongue of flames began appearing in the gaping hole in the bow, the captain knew it was time to act. They could not afford to wait until Alyssa Langford was actually going under to abandon the vessel. The master gave the order and the crew scrambled to their assigned lifeboat stations.
USS MONTPELIER
"All ahead slow," Commander Art Schweitzer ordered while he peered through the search periscope.
"Aye, aye, all ahead slow," the Officer of the Deck repeated.
Schweitzer watched quietly as che crew members of the containership Alyssa Langford abandoned the craft in an orderly fashion and connected their boats together.
Schweitzer then swept the horizon in a slow, deliberate 360-degree circle, noting a ships bridge coming into view many miles away. Feeling confident the crew he torpedoed would be rescued quickly, he folded the handles. "Down scope." Schweitzer stepped away from the retreating periscope. "All ahead one third, level at four hundred feet."
"Aye, aye, Captain, all ahead one third, level at four hundred feet." The Officer of the Deck watched the sailors as they responded to the skipper s commands.
Schweitzer had orders to loiter eighty nautical miles southwest of Bermuda and wait for further instructions. Another Shayhidi-owned cargo ship was preparing to sail from the port of Miami bound for Amsterdam. Under constant surveillance, Stephanie Eaton would be tracked to her rendezvous with USS Montpelier.
Other U. S. attack submarines were being positioned to intercept cargo vessels owned by Shayhidi. The Los Angeles-class boats were spreading out in the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian oceans, and in the Mediterranean Sea. They had orders to positively identify their target in daylight before attacking.
As the president ordered, Shayhidi oil tankers were off limits to the attack submarines. They would be dealt with in port by another elite branch of the U. S. Navy.
NATIONAL AIRBORNE OPERATIONS CENTER
When President Macklins E-4B touched down at Barksdale AFB near Shreveport, Louisiana, another gleaming Night Watch aircraft was standing by with two engines running. Four USAF F-15 Eagles were taxiing for takeoff. They would rendezvous with the NAOC shortly after the president was airborne.
Macklin and his entourage changed planes and settled into their quarters while the fresh flying command post prepared for takeoff. Once airborne and climbing, the E-4B picked up an escort consisting of one KC-135 refueling tanker and four fighters from Mountain Home AFB, Idaho.
The F-15S were responsible for shepherding the Boeing southeast over Florida and the Atlantic. Three hours later, a quartet of marine corps F/A-18C Hornets from the Crusaders of VMFA-122 would rendezvous with the flying command post.
With two of their own KC-130 tankers in position along the route, the marines would provide protection for the journey to a holding pattern near the Grand Banks southeast of Newfoundland. Later, with a navy escort of F/A-18s, the Boeing would head toward the Seattle area before landing at Dyess AFB near Abilene, Texas.
Everyone was in the conference room when Hartwell Prost walked in. He wasn't smiling, but his demeanor reflected a sense of satisfaction. "Gendemen, Saeed Shayhidi is missing another asset. The Alyssa Langford is en route to the bottom of the Adantic," he announced. "All hands were safely picked up by another ship."
"Great news," the president said, and looked at Pete Adair. "How are we doing on the refineries and power plants?"
"We re about sixty percent covered, but I expect full coverage in the next six to eight hours."
"What about the NOTAM?" Macklin asked.
Prost glanced at his wristwatch. "It was issued forty-five minutes ago. The word is also being passed from approach, departure, and en-route controllers, saturating the airborne pipeline."
The president removed his glasses and looked at General Chalmers. "Les, any of Shayhidis tankers in our sights?"
"Not at the moment. We re making good progress, but safety has to be our first priority," Chalmers said, in a tired voice. "We have to be deliberate, and we have to be extremely cautious."
After listening to the conversation, Pete Adair was growing more and more uncomfortable with the plan to sink Shayhidis ships. "If we re exposed, using our attack submarines to sink civilian ships, even if they are owned by a terrorist who is funding attacks on us, there's going to be a political firestorm the likes of which we've never seen."
Unusual for Prost, he instinctively made a decision to remain silent. Secretary Adair; sometimes you have to do whatever it takes to survive and win. We can put out the fires later.
"Pete," Macklin began, "let me worry about the political fallout. I'll take the heat if there is any. This country and the safety of its citizens mean more to me than hanging on to the White House for another term."
Surprised by the president's statement, Adair nodded his head. "Sir, if I don't speak my mind, I'm no good to you."
"Your candor is always appreciated." Macklin turned his attention to Prost, whose face was placid. "How are we coming on the State Department replacements?"
"Jim has completed the vetting process, and the list has gone to the majority leader in the Senate."
"We're in the middle of a war," the president said angrily. "I need someone now to help me with the international responsibilities and foreign relations."
"Well, sir," Prost said diplomatically, "as you know, Congress is in special recess because of the attacks. No word yet on when they'll be back in session."
"They're always in session when you don't need them," Macklin grumbled, "and never there when you do."
Prost looked at the vetting list. "Word on the Hill is they're going to stall your nomination when they return, payback for not keeping them in the loop."
Sensing the president's foul mood, no one ventured a response.
"Hartwell," Macklin said bitterly, "get Brad Austin on the phone."
"Yes, sir."
"Let s see if hell consider an emergency recess appointment as acting secretary of state."
Prost smiled broadly. "I'm sure he would be honored, sir."
BOISE, IDAHO
It had almost taken an act of Congress, and it did require a special insurance endorsement and a $15,000 refundable damage deposit, but Scott was checked out in the Cessn
a Caravan amphibian.
After two hours of intense instruction, including numerous water landings on a nearby reservoir, Scott was cleared to fly as pilot in command. Dalton purchased twenty hours of block flying time, not to exceed ten days. With a phone call to the manager of the FBO, the flying hours and number of days could be extended.
One of the largest single-engine aircraft on floats, the roomy, reliable turboprop was often called the ultimate amphibian. Considered by many pilots to be one of the toughest airplanes in its class, the rugged eight-to fourteen-passenger Caravan could operate safely from most water or land destinations anywhere in the world. From its introduction in 1985, the airplane had been a consistent hands-down favorite of operators from Federal Express to bush pilots in Third World countries.
"How'd it go, or should I ask?" Scott said, when Jackie casually walked up to the big plane.
Although she tried to conceal her irritation, the animus was close to the surface. "Just have to make an appointment for a oneway gab fest with an FAA chief yakker."
Scott gave her a thin smile. "Yeah, you probably need a little pep talk about being more careful around terrorists."
Not in a humorous mood, she ignored his comment. "I made arrangements to have the wreckage removed by the Feds."
His surprise was evident. "The same Feds were supposed to be staying away from?"
"Same ones," she said, with a straight face. "I called Hartwell and he's taking care of the problem."
"So everything's tied up nice and neat and we re free to mosey on down the road?"
"We sure are," she said, and glanced at the sun. "But there's only about three hours of daylight left."
Scott glanced around the ramp. "That's better than sitting here twiddling our thumbs. Been trapped here most of the day."
Jackie climbed up the struts on the Wipline amphibious floats and looked inside the spacious cabin. Scott had loaded their luggage and survival gear, and they were firmly secured by a cargo net. The gray leather seats looked comfortable, and there was even a potty seat in the back.
She stepped down, nonchalantly put her arm on one of the chest-high floats, and donned her traditional aviator-style sunglasses. "Light the fire and let's mosey."
Assurred Response (2003) Page 16