The destroyed dams, the unthinkable flood, and the border disasters were real. The numbers of the dead or injured far exceeded that of September eleventh. Many Americans were numb with shock; many more were deeply angry. There was talk about using nuclear weapons on the foreign countries that sponsored terrorists.
The same conversations that were taking place at local cafes in Wyoming and Montana were taking place in Manhattan and in the District of Columbia. Many of those who had previously been concerned about the treatment and rights of combatant detainees at Guantanamo Bay were now strangely silent.
The issue of using national guard troops to act in a law enforcement role on the border was still unsettled. Some politicians suggested the guardsmen simply detain the illegal immigrants for law enforcement officers, but that idea had set off alarms throughout the Beltway.
At this early hour, accusations of racial profiling were being made on Capitol Hill and the morning television shows. The politicians were tight-faced and in full screech.
Although the American markets were temporarily closed, tempers were flaring on the networks financial news programs. The bears were predicting a global collapse of financial markets. The bulls in the debate were calling for calm, rational thinking.
The search for victims was still under way and growing as more military and civilian helicopters arrived in the Southwest. Makeshift morgues were hastily set up in every square foot of available warehouse space, and most were filled to capacity. Those who survived the flood were either injured or had been exposed to low levels of radiation.
With the horrible events in the southwestern states, many Americans were just beginning to focus on the sudden tension between the United States and Mexico. The uncontained breach of the U. S.-Mexico border had resulted in President Macklins activating army national guard units from Texas, New Mexico, California, and Nevada. They would augment Arizona's national guard, already on duty, to assist border inspectors and reduce traffic delays at key crossings.
The national guard s new orders were clear: Police the entire border and detain all illegal aliens trying to enter the United States. Clamp down hard was the word, straight from the White House.
President Macklin had made his position on terrorism crystal clear in a televised press conference following his Cabinet meeting.
"I will not sit idly by while additional thousands of Americans are murdered in the next terrorist attack. You can forget the term politically correct and all other such catchphrases. On my watch, common sense and a strong backbone will carry the day."
He paused, staring straight into the camera. "If youre a Middle Eastern male between the ages of sixteen and sixty, you re going to be profiled, no doubt about it. If you re Latin American or Hispanic, plan on being stopped and checked for proper documentation."
His features softened and his voice sounded upbeat. "On the other hand, if you re a white-haired eighty-seven-year-old widow from Topeka, Kansas, you re not likely to be questioned."
He went on to explain to the assembled reporters that after the disastrous midair collision between the air force F-16 and the Mexican F-5, a second strong warning had been sent to the government of Mexico and its military leaders. Any foreign aircraft straying into U. S. airspace would be intercepted and forced to land. If the pilot did not comply, the plane or helicopter would be shot down without hesitation.
Macklin explained that Secretary of State Bradley Austin was en route from Saudi Arabia to Mexico City for an emergency meeting with his counterpart and the Mexican president.
Scott finished shaving and splashed water on his face. "Things are getting warm down south."
Jackie closed her luggage. "Fd say President Macklin is running short on patience this morning."
"You can hear it in his voice." Scott paused and looked at Jackie. "This would be a good time to correct some of the problems we have with Mexico."
She started to grin and then realized he was not joking. "What do you mean, problems with Mexico?"
He dried his face. "Corruption in the Ejercito Mexicano--the Mexican army--and the culture of corruption in the police forces.
The drug lords will spend more than seven hundred million dollars this year in bribes and payoffs to Mafia-like Mexican generals and police officials."
"Yeah, its a mess down there," she said, reaching for Scott's luggage. "The system is corrupt from the top down, always has been."
"It's time for our government to help correct the problem, for the sake of both our countries." He turned off the television. "Let's head for the airport--lots to do."
"Yeah, we'll tackle the Mexican problem on our lunch break."
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND
Since his return to Geneva, Saeed Shayhidi had not communicated with anyone. He would keep the Americans guessing. He had spent the entire time planning how he was going to regain control of his far-reaching conglomerate. The betrayal by Ahmed Musashi and Hafiz al-Yamani had been devastating, but the resolve that arose from the gut-wrenching incident was rock solid.
Everything was planned down to the most minute of details, including a new identity. Recovering from cosmetic surgery, Saeed Shayhidi was pleased with the early results. His face had been transformed without having to do radical surgery. With his hair now salt and pepper, he looked twenty years older. An inexpensive ill-fitting suit and scuffed shoes added another dimension to the makeover. Topping it off was a scruffy pale-yellow straw hat and tiny round wire-rim glasses without any correction.
No one but his one lifelong friend knew Shayhidi was in Geneva. Essam Afzal, a rich and powerful man in his own right, was using his contacts to construct an entirely new identity for Shayhidi. Bank accounts, credit cards--everything a person needs to start over--were in the works.
Afzal walked into the enormous game room, followed by his butler, who fixed them drinks at the bar. The butler, a heavyset Syrian, brought the libations to the sunken seating area and then left the room.
Also educated in the Ivy League, Essam Afzal raised his glass in a toast. "Well, you certainly won't be recognizable."
Shayhidi smiled and sipped his scotch and soda. "That's good because I want to see the looks on Ahmed Musashi and Hafiz al-Yamani just before I kill them."
Afzal frowned and stroked his neatly trimmed beard. "That's too risky. Have someone else take care of them."
"Dont worry I have a solid plan."
"If youre caught, the authorities will discover who you are. That, my friend, is not good. Trust me."
Shayhidi took a deep gulp from his drink. "The authorities can always be bought."
"That may be true, but the people who have worked hard to arrange a new identity for you can't be bought."
A deep frown formed on Shayhidi's forehead. "What are you talking about? What are you suggesting?" he asked, tossing back the last of his scotch and soda.
"Their business, their cover, and their reputation will be harmed if you don't play by their rules. Simply stated, they will kill you, and it will take a long time for you to die, my friend."
Shayhidi discounted the threat, ever certain of his ability to get away with anything he planned. "Good advice. I'll keep it in mind."
MEXICO
After landing at Benito Juarez International Airport, U. S. Secretary of State Brad Austins gleaming C-32A, a Boeing 757, was directed to the VIP parking area at the Presidential Transport Squadron. After deplaning, Secretary Austin and his entourage were greeted with assumed earnestness by Antonio Ferreira, the Mexican secretary of foreign affairs, a foppish, impertinent fellow with an oily shine to his coal-black hair.
A band played several tunes, including the U. S. National Anthem. Young girls formed a line and handed Austin homemade gifts, cards, and an assortment of colorful flowers.
After the pleasant ceremony, Austin and Ferreira entered a shiny limousine and headed for Los Pinos, Mexico's stately presidential palace.
LAS VEGAS
Waiting for their helicopter to arrive, J
ackie called Frank Wakefield while Scott remained in the taxi with their luggage and their weapons. Because of the tight security at airports since the dams were destroyed, he would take their weapons out of town to a rendezvous point. They had agreed on a location where Jackie could land and pick him up.
With special permission provided by the FAA, and a select transponder code, the Bell 206L-4 LongRanger landed a few minutes early Other than military aircraft, law enforcement helicopters, and news helicopters, few aircraft were flying.
The ferry pilot was an FAA employee who was curious about his special flight. Jackie was pleasant to him but apologized for the rush. She thanked the pilot and walked outside to signal Scott. Minutes later, she took off and headed for their rendezvous with Scott. He would be waiting south of the point where Interstate 15 merges with Highway 93.
After she landed, Scott stowed their luggage and their weapons in the back of the LongRanger. Airborne, they headed southeast.
Adjusting his Bose headset, Scott keyed the intercom. "What did Wakefield have to offer?"
"An update on Farkas."
"Any idea where he might be?"
"Let me start from the beginning," she said, glancing at the helicopters near the Colorado River. "A group of people cavorting around in dune buggies saw the bomber crash and also saw Farkas descending in a parachute. They went to see if they could help, but a helicopter landed nearby and Farkas limped to the helo and climbed in."
"Limped?"
"That's right." Jackie paused to answer the controllers question. "He apparently injured himself when he bailed out--which I still cant believe we didnt see--or when he hit the ground."
"Which way did they go?"
She checked her notes. "Southeast--a blue and white MD 500 with wheels."
"How do they know what kind of helicopter it was?"
"There was a helo pilot in the dune buggy group. He swore it was an MD 500. Said he had about two hundred hours in that particular model--unimpeachable eyewitness."
"Anything else?"
"Yes, heres the strange part. According to Wakefield, an MD 500 matching the description of the one at the B-25 crash site landed in Flagstaff to refuel. From the time it left the dune buggy group to the time it arrived in Flagstaff matches the flying speed of the MD 500. The manager of the FBO became suspicious when he saw the two men, both definitely of Middle Eastern origin. He contacted the FBI immediately after the helo took off."
"Did he see anyone limping?
"No." Jackie paused to switch radio frequencies. "Only one person got out of the helicopter, and he didnt match Farkas's description. The guy was bigger than Farkas and had thin hair--paid in cash, too."
"Still headed southeast?"
"South, straight south."
"Any advice from Wakefield?"
"Yes, but let me finish. About forty to fifty minutes after the MD 500 left Flagstaff, two hikers in the Coconino National Forest saw a blue-and-white helicopter land near an abandoned fishing lodge. After the pilot shut down the engine, two Middle Eastern men got out--one was limping--and went inside the old lodge. The hikers were concerned and contacted the FBI field office in Phoenix. The special agent there called Wakefield."
"Is Wakefield sending his people up?"
"Yes, as soon as they can get everyone to a staging area." Jackie paused to check in with the next controller. "He wants us to reconnoiter the area and see if we can locate the helo."
"Sounds good. You want to top off in Flagstaff?"
"Yes. Then I want to go high and be as unobtrusive as possible."
USS STENNIS
Steaming in the North Arabian Sea south of Gwadar, Pakistan, the carrier Stenniss battle group and Carrier Air Wing Nine (CVW-9) were preparing to launch a night strike. The targets were in western Afghanistan and remote sections of Iran and Syria. Many of the aircraft actually delivering weapons were armed with the SLAM-ER (standoff land-attack-missile expanded response) or the JSOW bomb (joint standoff weapon). Others would be armed with Saddam Specials, 2,ooo-pound GPS-guided JDAMs (joint-direct attack munitions).
Tomahawk cruise missiles from surface combatants and submarines were already raining destruction on various terrorist training camps and weapons storage and assembly facilities. Two of the missiles had leveled a headquarters building near the Iranian-Afghanistan border, killing a senior al-Qaeda leader, his son, and six members of his staff.
In eastern Iran a terrorist stronghold was about to be targeted by a B-2 stealth bomber. U. S. intelligence sources were convinced a meeting of senior al-Qaeda operatives was about to begin at the underground bunker.
The bomber was carrying the new ten-ton Massive Ordnance Air Blast Weapon. The 21,500-pound, all-weather, precision-guided bomb, known as the mother of all bombs, would collapse the fortification. The detonation from the Big One would be heard and felt for thirty-two miles in every direction.
The U. S. Navy carrier air wing would be supplemented by a contingent of British Royal Air Force GR-1 Tornados and U. S. Air Force F-15E Strike Eagles based at Kuwait's A1 Jaber Air Base. USAF tankers based in Qatar, along with British RAF VC-10 tankers, would provide fuel for the large strike package.
The launch would be a "pinkie" evolution in the fading rays of daylight. Although many of America's so-called allies continued to deny the United States permission to use their runways and facilities, the floating sovereignty of Stennis provided a perfect platform from which to fight terrorism.
Partway through the launch cycle, a marine corps F/A-18 from the Black Knights of VMFA-314 taxied to the starboard bow catapult. The pilot, Captain Kurt Turcotte, gave a thumbs-up to the crewman holding the weight board. The yellow-shirt signaled the pilot to keep his feet off the brakes and gave the tension signal. After the Hornet was in tension, the director signaled Turcotte to retract the launch bar.
The pilot completed a thorough wipeout, carefully checking the flight controls, and then concentrated on his engine instruments.
Satisfied that everything was normal, Turcotte checked to make sure he wasnt sitting on the ejection handle. Feeling on top of the world, he snapped a sharp salute and grabbed the towel rack to brace for the exhilarating E-Ticket ride down the short cat track.
A few seconds later the catapult fired and Turcotte staged both blowers--full afterburner. Expecting to accelerate from o to 157 miles per hour in a hair over two seconds, he had a sudden sinking feeling when the aircraft stopped accelerating halfway down the track. It felt as if he had plowed through a tar pit. The launch bar broke or came out!
Suffering from denial, Turcotte still had full afterburner on both engines, knowing the plane was not going fast enough to fly. The brakes aren't going to stop me!
The denial was still there, causing a moment of paralysis. This can't be happening!
The end of the flight deck was almost under him when the synapse finally shot through his mind. I'm outa here!
Seeing only dark oily-looking water, Turcotte aggressively pulled the loud handle and ejected from the doomed aircraft. He tumbled a couple of times before the parachute began to open, followed by a severe snap that stunned him. He caught a glimpse of his Hornet as it crashed into the water and blew apart with a muffled explosion.
Still hanging from his chute, a moment of panic seized him when he saw the huge carrier coming straight at him. The ship is going to hit me while I'm still in the air!
He reached for his Koch fittings and frantically detached himself from the parachute, dropping fifteen feet into the dark water. A strong swimmer, his arms and legs were already in motion when he splashed down. Quickly surfacing, Captain Turcotte swam as hard and fast as he could to clear his parachute and the starboard side of the ship. I'm going to make it--don't stop-go-go-go!
The ship was almost past him when he stopped swimming and looked up. There was a sizable crowd staring at him from the starboard side of the flight deck. Thank God, I'm still alive.
He was suddenly tumbled again, over and over, in the turbul
ence of the wake from the powerful ship. It was like going through the wash cycle in a gigantic 4oo-horsepower Maytag.
Mere seconds later the plane guard, an H-60 Seahawk search-and-rescue helicopter, was overhead and creating a mini-hurricane around Turcotte. He turned away from the helicopter rotor wash and waited for the swimmer to reach him.
"Are you okay sir?" the petty officer asked.
"Yeah, I think so."
"Okay, well have you aboard in just a few seconds."
The swimmer quickly clamped the D-ring attached to Turcotte s torso harness to the hoist. A minute later the drenched but thankful pilot was safely aboard the Seahawk. After the swimmer had been retrieved, the helicopter turned to chase the carrier. Stennis was still launching aircraft at a rapid rate. Captain Turcotte was going to be sitting out this strike with some medicinal brandy in hand.
Chapter 26.
COCONINO NATIONAL FOREST
Jackie and Scott had flown over Lake Mary and then searched the area around Mormon Lake. There was no trace of a helicopter. They continued flying in a southeasterly direction and reconnoitered Blue Ridge Reservoir and the surrounding area.
"I dont see anything," Scott said, as he lowered the binoculars.
Jackie gently banked the helicopter. "Let's go back and check the shoreline of the second lake."
"Okay."
Making a gradual descent, Jackie leveled off 100 feet over the lake and slowed the LongRanger. They flew along the shoreline looking for any sign of a lodge or a helicopter.
"Very few people around here," Jackie observed.
"Thats why Farkas may be here, stay camouflaged, and let the hunt go in other directions."
They continued the search for another fifteen minutes.
Jackie descended to fifty feet and glanced at Scott. "We need a better description of the area where the hikers saw the--"
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