"Are you positive?"
"Absolutely! The number and the deck color match the description Wakefield gave me."
"Okay, we'll hold our heading until we're a few miles away, and then go straight to Boulder City."
"Can you believe it? We actually found them!"
"Well," Scott said with a grin, "they won't be hard to find again."
"That's for sure. Let's make this fuel stop a quick turn. Forget the burger."
"You bet. Save the cholesterol overdose for later."
"We better contact Wakefield," Jackie suggested. "Let him know we found the houseboat and see if there's anything new we need to know."
"Give him a call."
Frank Wakefield was extremely pleased. He requested that Jackie and Scott keep number 31 under surveillance until he could mount a raid at dawn. Over Wakefield's protests, Jackie explained that a houseboat stakeout was not the focus of their mission. She would have to check with her superiors and get back to him as soon as she could.
Jackie attempted to call Hartwell Prost but could not make contact. She gave up as they turned on final approach to the Boulder City Municipal Airport.
SOUTH OF KENNEWICK, WASHINGTON
Flying air force A-10 close-air-support jets, Captain Lex Ingraham and his wingman, Captain Corky Kamansky, were patrolling the train track used by Amtrak's popular Empire Builder. On temporary assignment from the 47th Fighter Squadron at Barksdale AFB, the two aviators were experienced Warthog instructor pilots and veterans of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Flying low above the Columbia River south of the junction of the Snake and Columbia rivers, they were looking for any sign of sabotage or terrorist activity.
Other twin-engine A-10 "tank killers' from the 47th and from Davis-Monthan AFB, Arizona, were patrolling tracks and monitoring trains in the Northwest. Each jet was equipped with a single 30mm seven-barrel rotary cannon that fires milk-bottle-size rounds at a blistering pace. Many pilots who have flown the Warthog in combat claim the plane can lose one engine, half a tail, one third of a wing, and parts of the fuselage and still remain airborne.
Approaching a bend in the scenic river, Ingraham spotted a helicopter sitting directly on the tracks. The Eurocopter's rotors were turning and there were two men working beside the railroad. When the men heard the sound of the jet engines drowning the sound of the rotor blades, they glanced up at the A-10s and froze.
Ingraham keyed his radio. "Corky, see the helo on the tracks?"
"Roger, could be trouble."
"I'm going to check it out."
"Gotcha covered."
While Kamansky orbited overhead, Ingraham flew low over the men and then racked the A-10 into a steep turn around the suspicious helicopter. The men immediately dropped their tools and raced for the Eurocopter.
"We have a bite--let's go hot," Ingraham said, before he contacted the AWACS. The reply was nearly instantaneous.
"I'm rolling in hot," the flight leader said, in a calm, even voice. "Our customer looks like he needs a little off the top."
"A light trim."
The helicopter was about to lift off when Ingraham's Gatling gun ripped its tail to shreds. The beefy cannon made aluminum foil out of the enclosed tail rotor. The Eurocopter turned 90 degrees, jamming the twisted landing gear inside the railroad tracks.
"End of the line," Ingraham radioed.
Leaving the heavily damaged helicopter with the engines still running, three men emerged and sprinted for cover under the nearby fir trees.
"Boys, you shouldn't try to escape," Ingraham said under his breath. "You aren't going to like this, believe me." He rolled in again and gently squeezed the trigger. The huge cannon shells carved a wide swath in the trees about thirty feet in front of the trio. They skidded to a halt and changed directions, dodging and weaving through the fir trees.
"Corky, you have them in sight?"
"Got em."
"Your turn," Ingraham said, and then asked the AWACS controller to contact the nearest law enforcement agency.
Kamansky walked his rounds so close to the men that pieces of shredded bark and tree limbs were pummeling them. They stopped in their tracks and put their arms up, stretching them high above their heads.
With a few well-placed bursts of cannon fire, Kamansky herded them back into the open and continued to circle. A few minutes later a patrol cruiser came racing down the highway, followed shortly thereafter by a sheriff's deputy.
"Looks like this is a wrap," Kamansky radioed.
"Not exactly. Amtrak is headed this way."
Kamansky glanced up the tracks. "Perfect timing."
"I hope I didnt screw up the track," Ingraham said, as he rolled out of his orbit and shoved the throttles forward. "Cover the bad guys."
"Roger."
Approaching the train head on, Ingraham rapidly slowed the A-10 and extended the landing gear. Okay, guys, pay close attention. Haven't got a lot of time.
The shocked engineer, along with the bug-eyed passengers in the Sightseer Lounge, weren't sure what was going on when the mean-looking Warthog roared low overhead with the landing lights glaring.
Come on! Ingraham wrapped the plane around in a tight circle, rolling wings level just before he had to pull up to miss the engine.
That did the trick. The lightbulb came on and the Empire Builder began slowing, but it was going to be close.
Ingraham cleaned up the A-10 and climbed to 800 feet above the ground. The authorities had the terrorists in custody and Kamansky was circling leisurely at 1,500 feet. The train was almost stopped when it pulverized the Eurocopter, grinding it into twisted pieces of jagged metal.
NATIONAL AIRBORNE OPERATIONS CENTER
The decision was made to transfer President Macklin and his staff from the E-4B to the safety of Cheyenne Mountain. However, they would delay the arrival of the 747 in Colorado Springs until more security personnel were in place. The vice presidents entourage and the joint chiefs were on their way back to Washington.
Fresh from a late-afternoon nap, President Macklin was sitting alone in his quarters when Hartwell Prost gendy knocked on the door.
"Come in."
Prost entered the compartment and wearily sat down. "Well," he began haltingly, "my good friends at the Agency are completely, totally embarrassed--again."
Macklin turned and stared out the window. "More bad news?"
"Shayhidi apparently slipped right by them when they had him cornered. They didnt know it at the time."
"Where?"
"At his hotel suite in Beaulieu-sur-Mer, France."
"What happened, what went wrong?"
"Our folks had local intelligence about his suite, but we weren't sure he was there."
"I assume he was."
"Yes, his breakfast was half eaten."
Macklin frowned and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Hartwell, I dont understand how these things keep happening, I really dont."
Chagrined, Prost remained silent.
"It makes us look really incompetent," the president said impatiendy. "Like we have a collective case of somnambulism."
"Fm fully aware of that, sir."
The president calmed himself. "The media is going to have me for lunch and then have the Agency for dessert."
"Sir, I'm sorry."
"Hartwell, its okay," Macklin said, and then softened his tone. "What happened? Give me the details."
"While we were getting our people in place, Shayhidi was whisked out of the hotel in disguise . . . right in front of our agents sitting in the lobby."
"How do we know that?" the president asked.
"The hotels assistant manager admitted Shayhidi was there but swore on his mother's grave that he didnt know how Shayhidi managed to disappear."
Macklin remained quiet.
"Now," Prost said with a tortured look, "after all this effort, hes disappeared and we have no leads--no idea which way he went."
"What about our people at the airport?"
"He didnt use th
e airport he normally frequents." Prost concealed his anger. "I apologize for this unmitigated mess."
"Its not your fault." The president tapped his friend on the forearm. "Youre not working at the Agency anymore."
Prost gently shook his head. "I know, but I don't handle things like this well. Neither do you."
"Look at it this way. The guy's running for his life." Macklin shrugged. "We're nipping at his heels and he's desperate, making mistakes and looking over his shoulder."
"True, he's definitely in a state of duress. Knows we're tracking him like a pack of hounds. But I can't handle any more screwups at Langley."
"Don't be so hard on yourself. His homes are partially destroyed," Macklin observed. "His corporate jet no longer exists, his yacht is on the bottom of the Mediterranean, his shipping empire is kaput, his entire world is in shambles, and he's being hunted like a serial killer. I doubt if he has much time to think about anything other than his personal survival."
"You're right, but I want him at the end of a rope."
"Actually," the president said lightly, "this is much worse for someone like Saeed Shayhidi, a twisted narcissist who craves the limelight. Shayhidi, who thought he was so clever, knows he has made a tragic blunder of galactic proportions." Macklin lowered his voice and clearly enunciated each word. "Shayhidi knows he made the dumbest move of his life, and he can never make it go away-- ever."
"Well, that's one consolation." A faint smile touched Hartwell's mouth. "There is one piece of good news to report this afternoon."
"Good news," Macklin said with a soft chuckle. "Better get the doctor in here before you tell me any good news."
Prost explained about the A-10 pilots and the dynamite being buried under the railroad tracks.
"That is good news," the president said energetically. "We finally nailed them first. Have they been turned over to the FBI?"
"Not yet. Probably in the next hour or so."
"Good." Macklin stretched his arms and stifled a yawn. "What's our ETA in Colorado Springs?"
"Three-twenty A. M."
"What's the status of our strikes in Iran and Afghanistan?"
"The final briefing is in progress, the weather looks good, and the combined air operations center has reported that the mission is on schedule."
"Excellent. Keep me informed."
"Yes, sir."
USS STENNIS
The first strike on significant Middle Eastern air defenses was launching from the carrier. The E-2C Hawkeye was airborne and the F-14S and F/A-18S were being catapulted at a rapid rate. A second strike package was preparing to take to the skies when the first wave of aircraft were inbound to the carrier. A third strike would take off five hours later.
Many of the military's older unmanned aerial vehicles were being sacrificed to stimulate air defenses so they could be tagged and engaged. The Hunters, Pioneers, Gnat 750s, and the first generation of Predators were serving as decoys in high-risk areas. The disposable UAVs would remain on station until they were shot down or ran out of fuel.
AL-UDEID AIR BASE, QATAR
F-15E Strike Eagles, A-10 Warthogs, and F-16 Vipers were tasked to hit primary targets between the strikes from Stennis. The schedule would alternate, with some strikes following on the heels of others while intervals went by with little activity at certain locations. The missions would be flexible, but never more than two hours would pass without a harassment flight of a two-plane section or a division of four aircraft. Search-and-rescue aircraft and helicopters would be on station for every attack.
Chapter 20.
PHNON PENH, CAMBODIA
After an extended fuel stop in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, Saeed Shayhidi's chartered Falcon 900EX touched down at the Pochentong International Airport. The capital of Cambodia, Phnom Penh, lies at the junction of the Basak, Sab, and Mekong river systems in the south-central region of the country.
Jumpy and tired from his many close calls with the Great Satan, Shayhidi ignored the flight crew and walked straight to his waiting limousine. He sat in the air-conditioned comfort of the stretched Cadillac while his luggage was loaded into the trunk.
The twenty-minute ride to his hotel gave Shayhidi ample time to reflect on the decisions he had made after his narrow escape from the CIA agents in France. The communications center in the long-range Falcon had been put to good use. Of course, Shayhidi had no idea that Echelon Two was listening to his conversations.
First on his agenda: cosmetic surgery, changing the color of his hair, assuming a different identity, and opening new bank accounts. He would have to trust his most senior executive, Ahmed Musashi, the man he had put in charge of his vast empire. In addition, Shayhidi would have to alter his style of dress and his arrogant demeanor.
Impulsively Shayhidi opened the limousines well-stocked bar. He filled a crystal glass with ice cubes and poured three fingers of Chivas Regal scotch. He swirled the amber liquid and then tossed it back in one swift motion.
Lost in his misery and despair, Shayhidi stared blankly out the window at the maze of traffic. Every time he began to feel the least shred of confidence returning, the gnawing reality of what he had done resurfaced. He fixed another stiff drink and ruminated about his predicament, how rapidly everything had unraveled. The swift descent from having his life and businesses well-organized and running smoothly to utter chaos was unfathomable. As hard as he tried, he could not face the simple fact that he had made some very poor decisions.
When the limousine arrived at the Hotel Le Royal, Shayhidi was pleased with the accommodations. Located in the heart of Phnom Penh, the elegant hotel occupied an entire city block and was situated amid fragrant tropical gardens. Opened in 1929 in a structure that was a blend of Art Deco, Khmer, and French architecture, the hotel offered eight restaurants and bars featuring a wide variety of cuisines.
Checking in under an assumed name, Shayhidi paid cash in advance for a three-week stay in their best suite. That would provide enough time to have his newly leased luxury villa refurbished and furnished. He had not seen the home, but the description he had been given while aboard the Falcon sold him on the residence.
In his suite and alone, Shayhidi's alcohol-induced confidence completely dissolved. Traces of paranoia were beginning to surface. What if the crew on the Falcon were informers for the Americans? What if someone in the lobby recognized me? The thoughts were flooding his mind so fast he could barely cope. Since leaving Princeton, Shayhidi had been constantly surrounded by bodyguards and his entourage of self-seeking male and female flatterers.
It was unnerving to be suddenly alone, totally alone. There was no one around to flatter him, no one stepping and fetching at his command. For Shayhidi, the sensation was like solitary confinement, albeit in a first-class prison. No bodyguards who had been vetted, no companions to party with, no servants to abuse, no attention from his followers, nothing but emptiness, loneliness, and paranoia. I have all this money, but I have to hide from the world. What have I done?
He called room service and demanded more Chivas Regal and a wide array of food, making it clear that he wanted his order delivered as quickly as possible. After three waiters hustled the spread to his suite, he ate and drank voraciously until he felt mellow and comfortable. He wanted a female companion, a beautiful young Asian woman, to keep him entertained, but he was too tired at the moment.
Mentally and physically, he was exhausted. After another double scotch, Shayhidi collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep, tranquil sleep. When he awakened with a savage hangover, he returned to the dark side of his existence.
He drank more Chivas and then called his contact in Geneva. This trusted friend was his link to Ahmed Musashi. After conversing with Musashi, the friend would get back to him. Shayhidi had no idea how really difficult life was going to get in the near future.
BOULDER CITY MUNICIPAL AIRPORT, NEVADA
After they landed at Boulder City, Jackie again tried to contact Hartwell Prost while Scott refueled the Caravan from the s
elf-service pump. The call to Prost would not go through. She waited a few minutes and tried again with the same results.
"You look frazzled," Scott said, while he cleaned the Caravans windshield.
"Fve been trying to get in touch with Hartwell--see what his priority is--but I cant get through."
"Let s take off," Scott suggested. "Gain some altitude in a different location and try again."
Minutes later, they were climbing through 3,000 feet and Jackie again called Prost. He answered on the third ring. After an unusually lengthy conversation, Jackie signed off.
"What s the plan?"
"Hartwell wants us to work with Wakefield on the houseboat watch and then continue our search for Farkas. He said Farkas knows where the six nukes are and the Feds want to get their hands on him."
Scott engaged the autopilot. "Have I missed something?"
"He said they have solid intel suggesting that a nuke may be on the houseboat."
"Selective amnesia. Wakefield didnt tell you that little detail."
"Right, no need for us to be concerned. Hartwell believes the terrorists may take the houseboat up to the dam and detonate the nuke."
Scott banked the Caravan toward the lake. "So we re supposed to baby-sit a possible nuclear bomb until the Feds get there?"
"That's the way I read it. I better call Wakefield and tell him we're on board--watchdogs for the evening."
When she signed off, Scott descended to 2,000 feet and soon located the houseboat. It was anchored a mile north of the entrance to the waterway leading to Hoover Dam. Other boats of various types were scattered around the area; some were under way, but most were anchored for the evening cocktail hour. Scott removed his sunglasses, placed them on the glare shield, and began a steeper descent.
"What do you think?" Jackie innocently asked. "What's our strategy going to be?"
"We'll land in the open space between number thirty-one and the shoreline, and then drop anchor for the night."
"Do you think that's too close, too obvious?"
"No," he said, setting up for the approach. "Floatplanes, most airplanes that operate from water, would go to shore or anchor close to it."
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