He changed radio frequencies and tried to call Washington Center. They could hear him, but he couldn't hear the controller. Bertorini finally realized the volume on his radio was turned down, but it was too late.
Captain Chavez had no other choice. Orders were orders and they were unambiguous. He rolled in behind the civilian King Air. God, I hope this isn't a mistake! After the Sidewinder locked onto the target, Chavez steeled himself and took the shot. The air-to-air missile streaked straight for the turboprop.
Sam Bertorini reached for the control knob at the same instant the King Air penetrated the fifteen-statute-mile Prohibited Area around the Salem Units 1 and 2 nuclear power plants near Salem, New Jersey
"Washington Center," Bertorini radioed, "King Air Four--"
The Sidewinder slammed into the left engine and exploded. The left wing promptly separated between the engine and the fuselage. Pinned into their seats by heavy G forces, Bertorini and Pezzella knew they were going to die in the next few seconds. They also knew there was absolutely nothing they could do to prevent it.
Chavez and his copilot in the front seat of the Super Cobra gunship watched the blazing King Air roll over to the left and spin downward out of control. The C-90B plunged nose first into the ground near Interstate 95 and the New Castle County Airport, Wilmington, Delaware.
The tragic event was monitored on VHF radios by a number of individuals, including other pilots and a television news crew. The horrifying story, complete with accompanying video of the crash scene, was soon breaking news on all cable news networks. The message was clear. General aviation pilots needed to be extremely cautious about flight planning and orientation. Even a small error in navigation or a momentary lapse in communications could be fatal.
DYESS AIR FORCE BASE
Located in the wide-open spaces of west Texas, the colorful city of Abilene conjures an image of weather-beaten cowhands, dusty catde drives, rowdy saloons, and gunfights at high noon. The ancestors of Abilenes current residents would be shocked to see their west Texas town now. It was home to the supersonic Rockwell B-1B strategic bomber. After showcasing its capability in Operation Iraqi Freedom, the sharklike Mach 1.5 bomber continued to be a linchpin in the war on terrorism.
The early morning arrival of the E-4B was not a surprise to the flight line workers at the air base. One of the other airborne command centers had landed at 4:20 A. M. and was standing at the ready when the presidents plane arrived. Routine by now, the debarkation and embarkation evolution went smoothly. The 747 would remain on the ramp while the president held a short meeting.
When Macklin and his senior aides entered the waiting E-4B, they found Brad Austin aboard.
A former F-4 "Phantom Phlyer" fighter pilot in Vietnam, Bradley Carlyle Austin was a trim 166 pounds and stood five feet ten. The streaks of silver-gray hair at his temples accented his twinkling hazel eyes. A distinguished graduate of the U. S. Naval Academy, Austin had opted for a commission as a second lieutenant in the U. S. Marine Corps.
Upon completion of flight training at Kingsville, Texas, he was assigned to a marine F-4 squadron. He later became an exchange pilot with a carrier-based navy F-4 fighter squadron. His performance-some would say exploits--during the Vietnam era were legendary throughout the naval aviation community.
To a person, his fellow naval aviators knew that Captain Austin had flown a captured Mig-17 behind enemy lines. Less well known was the fact that he almost faced a court-martial during his first carrier tour for breaking the restrictive rules of engagement.
After his active duty obligation, Austin remained in the marine corps reserve. He later earned his graduate degree in international studies at Georgetown University.
Cord Macklin and Colonel Brad Austin, USMCR (Retired), had met on several occasions during their years inside the Beltway. The president was aware that Brett Shannon thought highly of Austin. Shannon had relied on Austins judgment and experience, especially in situations requiring a military or global perspective.
"Brad, welcome aboard," President Macklin said, as he enthusiastically extended his hand.
"It's an honor to be here, sir."
Macklin gestured for everyone to take a seat at the conference table. He sat down and turned to Austin. "I trust you've been thoroughly briefed on our current situation."
"Yes, sir." Austin glanced at Prost and the secretary of defense. "Mr. Prost and Secretary Adair had their staffs bring me up to speed."
"Then you know we have an international diplomatic powder keg on our hands that could blow wide open at any moment."
Secretary Austin nodded solemnly. "Yes, sir. Brought my flak jacket and helmet with me."
The president smiled. "Im not so concerned about our close allies; 111 deal with them. But when word gets out that our submarines have been sinking Shayhidis ships, that we've been destroying his private property, there's going to be some heat generated."
"I understand," Brad said. "Our greatest exposure is with our pseudo-allies in Europe, the Far East, Russia, and the Middle East.
Shayhidi is an icon to many people in the Middle East, and it's going to require some hand-holding sessions."
"The bottom line?" Macklin said, looking Austin squarely in the eye. "People are going to cry foul to the U. N. and to the international press. Count on it."
"Sir, they already are."
The president slipped out of his windbreaker. "Well, I hope you'll be able to minimize the impact and smooth their ruffled feathers."
"I'm going to need some bargaining chips."
"Whatever you need, it's your show." Macklin was impressed with Austin's straightforward no-nonsense approach.
Brad didn't hesitate. "Leverage--foreign aid. I've talked with Commerce about expediting lucrative construction projects in the region, military aid packages, et cetera." Austin glanced at Prost. "It would be helpful if I had a noose to hang over Shayhidi's head."
Macklin turned to Prost. "Hartwell, anything we can release without compromising sources or methods?"
"Everything we've gathered on Shayhidi at this point is highly classified. If we find him, have him in our custody, that would dramatically change the picture."
"Or if we get our hands on Farkas," Adair added.
"That's another story," the president said.
"Farkas is still around?" Austin asked.
"He sure is, and we're trying to close the deal," Macklin said, darting a look at his watch. "Gentlemen, if there's nothing else, I suggest we let Secretary Austin get under way."
Brad rose from his chair on cue. "I'm going to be on the move a lot, but I'll keep you fully informed."
"Just don't start any wars," the president said, tongue in cheek.
Austin smiled, knowing the president was fully aware of his escapades during the unpleasantness in Vietnam.
"Thanks, Brad," Macklin added, as he shook Austin's hand firmly. "Again, welcome aboard. Sorry we have to throw you into the lion's den your first day on the job."
"I wouldn't know how to respond if it were any other way."
"Good luck," Prost said, shaking Austin's hand.
"Thank you, sir."
As soon as Austin left the 747, it began taxiing to the active runway. Escorted by four air force F-15s, President Macklin and his staff were soon airborne and on course to a patch of sterile sky above Lake Michigan near Green Bay Wisconsin.
GRANBY,COLORADO
The Amtrak California Zephyr, train number 5, was precisely on time as it passed near Rocky Mountain National Park. Originating in Chicago, many experienced travelers considered the California Zephyr the most comfortable and safest way to travel to San Francisco. The relaxing train trip was certainly one of the best ways to see the towering peaks of the Rockies, follow the winding Colorado River, and ascend the famous mile-high Donner Pass in the heart of the Sierra Nevada.
The passengers aboard the California Zephyr were beginning to see the effects of the bad weather plaguing the northwestern states. By the time th
e train began its leg to Glenwood Springs, Colorado, many of the contented diners were having dessert and coffee. Most conversations quietly shifted from terrorism to the myriad pleasures of San Francisco, the romantic city by the bay.
From his vantage point high on a ridge above the train, Waleed Majed waited until the second passenger car passed over the marker he had placed beside the tracks. Gleefully, he triggered the twin sets of dynamite explosives. In what appeared to be a movie in slow motion, the California Zephyr derailed in jumbled sections, its cars, piled into each other, ripping open like bags of potato chips and spilling their contents.
Laughing aloud, Majed turned and raced to the idling helicopter perched on a narrow slope behind him. He and his accomplice would be many miles away before the first news helicopters, emergency medical technicians, and law enforcement officers arrived at the scene of devastation.
Chapter 17.
POCATELLO, IDAHO
"What do you think?" Jackie asked, looking out the car window at the low clouds and steady drizzle. "Go or no go?"
"We've been stuck here an extra day." Scott stared at their Caravan for a moment and then looked down the regional airport runway. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready to continue the search. Need to find Farkas and the nukes."
She pondered the situation for a few seconds. "This low is a big system, part of three low-pressure areas mingled together."
"I know, saw it on the Weather Channel."
"And it's not going away anytime in the near future," she added, in a slightly guarded voice.
Scott didn't respond.
"You're the chief," she conceded. "You make the call on this one."
"As long as we have reasonable visibility, we can motor along at seventy-five to eighty knots and take our sweet time."
Without hesitation, she popped the car door open. "Then let's load our gear and get on with the program."
He reached for the door handle, sensing Jackie's uneasiness. "If it gets too bad, we'll pick up a clearance and go to Salt Lake City."
"Sounds good to me."
Once their luggage, coffee, and doughnuts were aboard the airplane, Jackie turned in their rental car. Scott oversaw the refueling of the Caravan and completed a thorough walk-around while Jackie climbed into the airplane.
Scott slipped into the left seat, ran the checklist, and started the turboprop. "We barely have minimums for VFR."
Her finely drawn brow arched. "I'd say that's an honest assessment. We haven't filed a flight plan either."
"Thats because we dont know where were going to land or how many times we re going to stop," he said, before calling Ground Control for permission to taxi. Once they were airborne, Scott raised the landing gear and leveled the Caravan below the dark clouds.
With pen in hand, Jackie closely studied the sectional chart. "It looks like we could check Logan and then start our grid search, providing we have the visibility"
"Okay." He glanced at the GPS, lowered the flaps, and began slowing the Caravan. At 80 knots indicated airspeed, a computer-generated voice announced a warning. "Gear down for runway landing."
"Ah, yes indeed, you have a backup," Jackie said, noticing the flashing annunciator light on the panel. "Marine proof."
When they were a few miles west of Preston, Idaho, the sky to the south and west began to get darker, much darker. Scott turned eastbound while Jackie called the Boise Flight Service Station for a weather update.
"Logan has gone below minimums," she announced. "Pocatello is going down too. Our options are shrinking."
Scott added power and raised the flaps. "Well, this isn't going to work VFR, not in the direction we need to go." He studied the chart for a moment. "We're only a few miles from Bear Lake." He checked to make sure the landing gear was up. "We'll put down there, throw out the anchor, and have our breakfast."
Jackie was dubious about landing on a lake in this kind of weather, but she kept her feelings to herself. They flew low over the Cache National Forest and began their approach to the lake.
Scott keyed the marine radio. "Bear Lake traffic, Caravan amphibian on a right base for a landing to the west."
There was no response.
"Probably no one out on a day like this," he said, needing to hear the reassurance of his own voice.
Jackie remained quiet. Let's go to Salt Lake.
The drizzle had turned to steady rain and the visibility was rapidly deteriorating. Scott selected full flaps and began reducing power. Because he was barely able to see the surface of the lake, he began slowing his rate of descent when the radar altimeter hit 200 feet. A few seconds later the aural warning sounded, prompting him to quickly recheck the landing gear.
"Scott, I think we should climb out of here and pick up a clearance to Salt Lake--anywhere." She was straining to see through the rain-soaked windshield.
"Hang on, were almost there."
He was totally concentrating on setting up for the landing flare when the satellite phone rang. At the same instant, a pair of stunned fishermen in a small fishing boat appeared in the Caravans wide windshield. While the panicked, wide-eyed anglers dove to the floor of their boat, Scott simultaneously pulled on the yoke and shoved the thrust lever forward. Violently rocking the small craft with prop wash, the amphibian skimmed over the top of the boat and began climbing.
Scott milked the flaps up. "I think that's a great idea."
"What?"
"A clearance to somewhere--anywhere."
"No kidding," Jackie said, as she answered the satellite phone. She asked Frank Wakefield to hold for a moment.
Scott banked into a spiraling ascent. "We'll take direct to Salt Lake."
She nodded and checked in with the controller. With an instrument clearance in hand, and the plane climbing to altitude under radar contact, Jackie spoke with Wakefield and wrote a few notes on the aeronautical chart. She signed off and placed the satellite phone down.
Scott's adrenaline was returning to normal. "What's up?"
"Well, things are beginning to get hot. There's been a flurry of activity here in the Northwest."
"What kind of activity?"
"The National Security Agency has been intercepting phone calls and messages from Europe and the Middle East to a number of individuals in the northwestern states."
"Anything on Farkas?"
"He didn't mention anything. The intercepts indicate that the cells are being activated. They are beginning to assemble in groups. Wakefield's people are investigating a number of reports. He wants us to check out a situation that popped up early this morning."
"Where?"
"Just a second." She paused to answer a radio call from Salt Lake Center and then turned to Scott. "The FBI received a tip from some guy who overheard a drunk in a bar late last night, actually at one o'clock this morning."
Scott shook his head. "A tip from a guy in a bar after midnight?"
"That's right. The guy was apparently bragging about getting a thousand dollars in cash for renting a houseboat, in his name, for two men."
"The significance?"
"According to the informant, who has been thoroughly checked out, the drunk claimed the men were Middle Easterners."
"Where, what lake?"
"Lake Mead."
"Has there been anything strange, anything out of the ordinary, going on in the Lake Mead area?"
"There have been reports of Middle Eastern types around the lake. The men, assumed to be the two who paid the guy to rent the houseboat, have been seen before at different areas on the lake."
Scott carefully adjusted the power and trimmed the airplane. "Wakefield wants us to see if we can locate them?"
"He doesn't want us to spook them." Jackie's expression reflected her concern. "Wakefield says they want us to isolate them."
"Do we know their last location?" Scott glanced at the ominous clouds.
"They're somewhere in the southwest section of the lake. Wakefield's people don't want to move in until they'v
e gleaned all the information they can get."
"Do you have a description?"
"There's a number, thirty-one, painted in bold black on the roof. The boat is one of the largest houseboats on the lake, so we don't have to dink with the small fries."
"Okay, we're on our way." He looked at the en-route chart. "Let's stay over in Salt Lake. We'll buy some fishing equipment, check the weather in the Boulder area, and get an early start in the morning."
"So, what's our plan?"
"Sit on the floats and fish, look natural and relaxed like we know what we're doing. We'll observe the houseboaters and stay in touch with Wakefield."
She folded the VFR chart. "Well-heeled anglers without a care in the world."
"Right. Need a couple of those Australian bush hats and some khaki vests adorned with fishing lures."
"Do you even know how to fish?" she asked skeptically Scott chuckled. "You underestimate me."
BRYCE CANYON AIRPORT, UTAH
Outside the maintenance hangar, Khaliq Farkas and eight other men in the terrorist cell were putting the finishing touches on the last of the handmade camouflage nettings. Viewed from the air, the specially crafted nylon material blended almost perfectly with the surrounding terrain and completely hid two World War II B-25 Mitchell bombers.
Farkass bombers, one purchased in Colombia and the other in Ecuador, were mechanically sound. They had recently been restored to good flying condition, not excellent, but sound enough to carry out the mission Saeed Shayhidi planned.
One of the Mitchells was painted in brown and dark gray colors while the other one was dull silver. Powered by 1,700-horsepower engines, the sturdy warbirds had a maximum speed of 275 mph. They could carry 3,000 pounds of bombs 1,350 statute miles.
Farkas had just received another coded e-mail from Shayhidi. The hot-tempered and impetuous financier was pressuring him to expedite the operation, but the precious weapons were still being attached inside their containers.
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