Major Blaine Holden, who was about to trade in his gold rank insignia for the silver insignia of a lieutenant colonel, awakened at 3:30 A. M. for his 5:30 A. M. flight from Dover to the al-Udeid Air Base at Qatar. With increased activity over the Middle East, the sprawling desert base was being resupplied on a daily basis.
As the aircraft commander, Holden had the responsibility of transporting 243 support personnel, including technicians, engineers, and their equipment and supplies, to al-Udeid.
With the aircraft near its maximum takeoff weight, Holden taxied to the runway while he went through the challenge-and-response of the pre-takeoff checklist. When the tower cleared them for takeoff, Holden maneuvered the lumbering Galaxy onto the centerline of the runway. A meticulous pilot, Holden handled the flight controls like a gifted concert pianist.
The power came up on the four engines, and the aircraft began accelerating. To the people watching the takeoff, it seemed like an eternity before the nose slowly rose into the air and the heavily laden Galaxy lifted into the morning sky. Next came the landing gear, retracting into the belly of the huge bird. With the speed increasing, the flaps followed as the copilot switched from the tower to Departure Control.
The aircraft was still accelerating and climbing when they crossed the western shoreline of Delaware Bay. The water was smooth as a millpond, and the air was so still Holden felt like he was sitting in his living room.
Abd-al-Azim al-Makki sat patiently inside the cabin of his newly purchased Barr-Craft walk-around fishing boat. The rig was truly a sportsman's dream come true. In addition to the fishing gear, the boat carried two portable Stinger surface-to-air missiles with launchers.
As soon as al-Makki spotted the big Galaxy, he stepped into the cabin and brought both missiles up to the deck. Al-Makki waited for the aircraft to get closer. The morning stillness allowed him to hear the throaty whine of the four engines. He looked around and saw a few boats in the distance. No matter, his mission was at hand and he would carry it out. He stood up, braced himself, and fired the first missile. He tossed the launcher into the bay and grabbed the second Stinger.
He braced again and raised the missile launcher at the same instant his first SAM hit the right outboard engine. Al-Makki fired the second missile, tossed the launcher overboard, and started the twin outboards. It was time to disappear and prepare for his next assignment.
The second missile went ballistic and flew over the plane. The outboard engine was still attached, but the uncontrolled blaze was burning through the wing structure.
Major Holden and his flight deck crew were working feverishly to extinguish the fire. The copilot, Captain Sean Kowlinski, was making a Mayday radio call while Holden tried to nurse the heavy lifter back to Dover. There was a debate about dumping fuel, but the flight crew agreed it could be fatal with fire trailing the length of the plane.
Holden kept the nose slightly below the horizon to keep his airspeed up. He was going to have to make a fast approach or risk pulling the power back on the left outboard engine. They could see the crash trucks racing to the runway. There was absolute fear in the passenger compartment, and the crew was trying to calm everyone.
Major Holden waited as long as he could and then called for the flaps. Next came the landing gear. They were getting close to turning final. Holden was cutting the pattern as close as he dared. Rolling out on short final, he began easing power on the left outboard engine. He kept sliding the throttle back as they slowed.
Carrying extra speed, Holden made a smooth landing while the crash trucks raced after the burning plane. The heavy lifter was quickly evacuated and the engine fire was extinguished. The emergency was a close call, but Holden had lived up to his reputation.
LAKE HEAD
The star-sprinkled Nevada sky was still jet-black when Scott awakened Jackie at 4:45 A. M.
"What is it?" she whispered, turning on the flashlight next to her.
"There's activity on the houseboat."
She propped herself up on one elbow. "Are they getting ready to leave?"
"I don't know, but I have an idea. The galley light came on about five minutes ago, but I haven't seen anyone--wait, I see one of the men in the galley. Just walked in."
Jackie poured bottled water on a kitchen towel and wiped her face. "I'll fix some hot tea."
"We don't have time. I need you to cover me."
She looked at him suspiciously. "What are you talking about?"
Scott pointed to the neatly coiled nylon dock line. "I'm going to foul their props so the boat can't go anywhere."
Jackie was incredulous. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Listen, just listen for a second." He picked up the end of the braided line. "These two lines--I've tied them together--are used to secure the airplane to docks. I have sixty feet of five-eighths-inch nylon line with a tensile strength of fifteen thousand pounds--same kind I have on my sailboat."
She raised her hand. "Stop. Not another word; don't say anything, period. In fact, I have one hell of a plan. We raise the anchor, start the engine, turn on the landing light, and ease out of here-gone. Adios."
"Jackie, do you know what will happen if these people do have a nuke and it goes off next to the dam?"
"Do you know what will happen if they detonate a nuke next to us?"
"That's why we re going to do my plan first--immobilize their houseboat--and then we re going to implement your plan--get out of Dodge."
"Immobilize the houseboat?" Her eyes quizzed him. "Wont the props cut through the nylon line?"
"That's the point. The props won't be able to turn."
"Unbelievable." Jackie reached for one of the Heckler & Koch compact submachine guns. "We could have been in Hawaii doing something totally normal, like watching the sun set."
Scott removed his boots, and then slipped out of his shirt, socks, and hiking shorts. "Just cover me. If things go south, make every shot count. Take them both out."
He grabbed the nylon line, climbed out on the float, and slipped quietly into the calm water. The water temperature was comfortable and Scott was a strong swimmer. With the line looped around his left shoulder, he did a modified breaststroke toward the houseboat.
Jackie switched off the flashlight and sat in the cockpit with the door open. She held the submachine gun in her lap, ready to fire at the first sign of trouble.
Closing on the boat, Scott swam in slow motion as he approached the stern. When he was next to the stern drives, he eased beneath the surface and fastened the line around one prop. I hope they don't start the engines now.
Looping the line in a figure eight from one prop to the other and around the lower units, Scott surfaced four times to take a deep breath. Finally, he wrapped the last ten feet of line around the middle of the figure eight and tied a tight knot. The three-blade props were securely lashed port and starboard and fore and aft. The houseboat was not going anywhere under its own power until the braided line was removed.
When Scott surfaced, he heard voices nearby. The two men on the houseboat were outside talking in hushed voices. Scott could not risk swimming directly to the Caravan. He treaded water for a few minutes and then decided to go the long way back. That would mean making a wide arc from the houseboat to the Caravan.
Jackie, straining to see any movement in the water, was becoming more anxious as the minutes passed. The sky was hinting at turning light. If they see him in the water and then realize something is wrong with their boat? Not a good place to be.
Swimming slowly and quietly Scott kept his nose an inch out of the water. If they catch me in a spotlight, I'm in serious trouble. After traveling about fifty yards behind the houseboat, Scott began a wide arc to reach the Caravan on the unexposed side.
Halfway to the airplane, he realized dawn was beginning to break. Going to have to move faster and shorten my route.
BRYCE CANYON AIRPORT, UTAH
The high-altitude airfield was practically deserted so early in the morning. The sky was clear a
nd the sun was still below the horizon. It was a perfect morning for flying: no wind to speak of, and no turbulence close to the ground.
Securely strapped into the left seat of the former Tokyo Express, Khaliq Farkas was pleased with the satellite phone connections to the lookouts at both targets. He followed his checklist and started the B-25 s big radial engines. They sputtered a few times, coughed up clouds of thick oily smoke, and then rumbled to life.
His wingman, Tohir Makkawi, also started his bomber s fourteen-cylinder engines. Makkawi, an Iranian who was in the United States on an expired student visa, had acquired only ninety-three hours of total flying time, but Farkas had found him to be a quick study.
Each pilot had a crewman with an AK-47 for last-ditch defense against an adversary in the air or on the ground. They could shoot from the large openings on each side of the fuselage behind the wings, formerly the waist gunners position.
If everything worked as planned, one of these two reconditioned survivors of World War II would be flying its last mission this morning. While the Mitchells engines warmed sufEciendy, the ground crew checked for leaks and other anomalies on the warbirds. Everything appeared normal on the exterior, while the engine gauges in the cockpits reflected the same status. It was time to fulfill Saeed Shayhidis grand plan, the mastermind s most elaborate scheme yet.
The senior mechanic gave both pilots the signal to taxi. Once the airplanes were off the ground, the mechanic and his fellow terrorists would make their way to a secluded cabin in the backwoods of Canada. They would remain there in sleep mode until activated to strike again.
Flying the brown and dark gray bomber, Farkas led Makkawi in the silver B-25 to Runway 21. The Bryce Canyon Airport is classified as an uncontrolled airport. All pilots, whether inbound, outbound, or flying in the traffic pattern performing touch-and-goes, are expected to communicate on a common frequency.
After each pilot ran up his engines, checking that all systems were functioning properly Makkawi keyed the radio and told his flight leader that he was ready for takeoff. Partially lowering his flaps, Farkas made the necessary radio call to take the active runway and taxied into position. He slowly added power and then released the brakes.
Once Farkas was rolling down the 7,400-foot runway, Makkawi lowered his flaps, made the mandatory radio call, and taxied onto the airstrip. Carrying an extra 300 gallons of fuel in his plane, Makkawi walked the throttles forward and released the brakes. A few seconds later, he knew he was in trouble. The bomber began drifting to the left side of the seventy-five-foot-wide runway.
With his heart stuck in his throat, he shoved in the right rudder and overcorrected, sending the B-25 careening toward the right side of the runway. Clutching a handhold, the crewman in the back was praying he would live through the takeoff.
With alternate jabs at the brakes and the rudders, Makkawi finally managed to get the bomber off the runway and climbing. His heart was pounding so fast that he froze on the controls. He had come close to losing control of the Mitchell and jeopardizing the mission.
Passing near the Best Western Ruby s Inn, Farkas was in the process of adjusting the engine controls. Waiting for Makkawi to join him in loose formation on his left wing, Farkas began a gentle left turn. He didnt want to use the radios unless it was absolutely necessary. After a minute, he began to bank more steeply to the left. Where is he? Farkas rolled wings level on course to the initial point for their first target.
"One, slow down." The voice was tinged with anxiety.
Slow down? Something is wrong. Rolling into a tight bank to the left, Farkas was approaching 180 degrees of turn when he saw the problem. He keyed the radio. "Two, raise your landing gear and check your flaps up."
The wheels disappeared.
"Fly our course heading," Farkas ordered. "Ill rendezvous on you."
"Okay--sorry."
"Settle down. Fll lead you in."
"Okay."
Farkas pulled up on the right side of Makkawi and slightly ahead of him. Flying at less than 600 feet above the ground, they continued toward their objective.
Makkawi noticed a thin trail of gray smoke coming from his leaders right engine, but he didnt mention it. There was too much at stake to worry his flight leader and mentor unnecessarily. Besides, Farkas had made it clear at the preflight briefing: Once they were under way, there would be no turning back.
With everything under control, Farkas used his satellite phone to once again contact the lookouts at each target. If there were fighter planes in the area, the cell members on watch would fire flares into the air in an attempt to distract the U. S. pilots. If the jets were low enough, the terrorists had shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles available. The men on the boats had only one task to accomplish: Make sure Farkas and his wingman hit their targets even if it resulted in all of them sacrificing their lives.
PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA
Pacing the floor in his suite at the Hotel Le Royal, Saeed Shayhidi was becoming extremely frustrated and angry. After four attempts to use his intermediary, trusted friend Hafiz al-Yamani, to communicate with Ahmed Musashi in Geneva, no one had called back. Now, for some inexplicable reason, al-Yamani refused to take any further calls, and he was ignoring Shayhidi's e-mail.
With his bellicosity increasing by the minute, the mogul-turned-fugitive checked his diamond-encrusted wristwatch. Given the time in Switzerland, Musashi would be getting ready to go to lunch at the Atrium Bar in the Beau-Rivage Geneva. Shayhidi called him at his office and the secretary, surprised to hear from the man himself, quickly patched him through to Musashi. When the acting president of Shayhidi's vast empire answered the phone there were no pleasantries.
"You better have an explanation," Shayhidi threatened, his face twisted in anger, and it better be a damn good one."
Shocked to hear directly from Shayhidi, Musashi paused a moment. "I dont think this is a good idea."
"I dont care what you think!"
"Listen to me," Musashi said harshly. "The Americans are monitoring our communications, e-mail, phone calls, faxes, everything."
Ignoring Musashi's warning, Shayhidi was clenching and unclenching his left fist. "Why hasn't al-Yamani returned my phone calls or answered my e-mail? What is going on?"
"He works for me now," Musashi snapped. "We have to stay as far away from you as possible. The Americans are using eavesdropping technology to track you. They're probably using voice recognition and encryption."
Shayhidi was taken aback. "How would you know that?"
"It's only common sense. You know it's true and you better be careful, for the sake of everyone."
Calm was returning to Shayhidi's voice. "I want you to set up an account in Hong Kong that I can access under a different name."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," Musashi declared, in a defiant voice. "We've been suffering too many loses."
"What do you mean you can't do that?" Shayhidi snarled. "You make it a priority to get it done today or clean out your desk."
"Well," Musashi began slowly, "things have changed around here." He hesitated, gaining the courage to say what he had wanted to put in words for years. "You've become too much of a liability to our company"
Speechless at first, Shayhidi went ballistic. "Our company? What the hell are you talking about, our company?" His face was beet-red and the veins protruded from his neck.
"I cant allow your mistakes to adversely effect the reputation and performance of the company."
Stunned, Shayhidi's mind reeled. "Are you threatening me-- trying to oust me from the company I built?"
"Unfortunately, we've had to terminate you." Musashi found pleasure in saying the words.
I'll sue you and take every dollar you ever make," Shayhidi yelled in outrage. "Ill see you a pauper, you ungrateful bastard!"
"I dont think so," Musashi said, with a touch of pure venom. "You're an international fugitive, a terrorist. You don't have any money, can't get to any money, don't have any power, and I doubt if there's a
single lawyer out there who wants to be associated with a hunted international terrorist."
Trembling with rage, Shayhidi slammed the phone down. He'd been a fool to give Ahmed Musashi power of attorney to control the entire corporation. That deceitful bastard--I'll kill him! Then panic consumed him. The infidels know where I am. I have to find someone else to communicate for me.
Quickly, he packed two small leather bags, locked the door to his suite, and left the hotel without checking out. He personally flagged a limousine and threw his luggage in the backseat.
Six minutes later, two CIA agents and five local law-enforcement officers arrived at the hotel to take Saeed Shayhidi into custody.
The drive to Siem Reap, Cambodia, gave Shayhidi time to calm down and think through the unthinkable. Using a phony name, he checked into the Grand Hotel, a historic landmark resort located in the heart of the city. One of Asia's finest hotels, the Grand was only eight kilometers from the famed Angkor complex.
Focused on taking his company back and seeing Ahmed Musashi and Hafiz al-Yamani dead, Shayhidi began thinking more clearly and methodically. He had the hotel concierge call Tang Cheng-hsi, a close friend who owned a hotel and a prestigious Hong Kong-based jet charter operation. They had done business together for many years. A long-range Gulfstream V was soon on its way to the Siem Reap Airport.
Chapter 22.
LAKE HEAD
Keeping a wary eye on the houseboat, Scott began swimming faster as the sky turned lighter. One of the men stepped outside on the forward deck and raised his binoculars. Scott plunged underwater and swam as fast as he could until he had to come up for air. He tossed a glance at the houseboat. The other man was now outside talking on a phone and his pal had his binoculars squarely on Scott. Rolling on his back to begin a strong, smooth backstroke, Scott looked searchingly at the Caravan and spoke in a loud voice. "The waters great--you should take a dip."
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