The weapon was a long thin bomb designed to burrow through forty to fifty feet of earth and concrete before detonating. The resulting explosion would destroy everything in the bunker, and the ground above it would collapse.
"When do you want to deploy them?" Adair asked.
"As soon as you have them ready No rushing; keep it safe."
Adair was about to reply when a military aide opened the door and profusely apologized for interrupting. "Mr. President, Secretary Austin is on the phone, insists on talking with you, sir."
"Thank you, 111 take it." Sensing more bad news, Macklin picked up the phone. "Hi, Brad."
While the president listened, his head slumped forward and he closed his eyes for a few moments. When he looked up, Macklin caught the attention of Hartwell Prost and then thanked Austin. After placing the receiver down, he swore to himself.
"President Cardenas is dead," Macklin announced, in a steely quiet voice. "Died about thirty-five minutes ago."
"Died?" Prost was in disbelief. "From what?"
"They arent sure."
The evasive answer did not fool Prost.
The president rose from his chair and walked around the end of his desk, signaling the end of the meeting. "Hartwell, if you don't mind, Fd like to discuss another matter with you."
"Yes, sir."
Macklin thanked Timkey, Adair, and Chalmers for dropping their dinner plans and rushing to the White House, ushered them pleasantly out of the office, and sat down across from Prost.
"You may want a drink," the president suggested, walking to the enclosed bar.
"I'll take you up on the offer." Prost watched the president's demeanor.
Macklin fixed two straight scotches and sat down. "Brad said the word from Mexico City, actually Los Pinos, is that Cirdenas was taking his usual afternoon nap before dinner and passed away in his sleep."
The normally calm Prost was incensed. "That's a hald-faced he," he snapped. "He was murdered. Thane were only five of us in the conference room, and it had been sanitized before we arrived "
"That's exactly right." Macklins patience was whipped raw. "Antonio Ferreira, the secretary of foreign affairs, was the informer. He is in collusion with the Mexican generals."
"And now the generals know what we intended to do."
The president remained quiet, contemplating the situation. "If you think about it, that's not bad. We can keep them looking over their shoulders, always wondering what might happen . . . and when it might happen."
"Right," Prost said as he sampled his drink. "Has the Mexican Congress designated an interim president?"
Macklin nodded. "Yes, Marco Garcia Fernandez, Cardenas former commissioner for northern border affairs."
"Can he be trusted?"
"Austin says he can, but hell have to eliminate Ferreira." Macklin took a slug of scotch. "I'll ask Brad to see if the new president needs any assistance with that task."
DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
After a morning of shopping for supplies, Jackie and Scott were in the hangar stockpiling their Gulfstream 100 for the long flight to Geneva, Switzerland. They had no idea where their quest to locate Saeed Shayhidi would take them, but they wanted to be well prepared for any contingency. Geneva might be the first of many stops during the hunt for the elusive terrorist supporter.
Because of the complexities of international rules and regulations, they were not going to carry any firearms except their personal 9mm handguns. The CIA and FBI identification they carried would take care of most questions or problems with foreign customs.
Although their new jet had tremendous range, they were going to take a conservative approach to their first Atlantic Ocean crossing. After departing Dulles International, they would stop for fuel at Gander International Airport in Newfoundland, Canada. The next stop would be London-Luton Airport, Bedfordshire, England, and then on to Geneva.
While unloading Jackie's packed Ford Explorer, they were catching snippets of the morning news reports on their portable television in the hangar. A huge barge with an attached crane was on its way to retrieve the space shuttle Atlantis, and the chaotic situation on the U. S-Mexican border was finally under control.
The situation at Mexico's presidential palace was a different story. The sudden death of the popular president left the country in a state of shock. There were more questions than answers surrounding his death.
An elaborate public funeral was in the final planning stages. The rioting had stopped and media outlets from all over the world were descending on Mexico City.
Closer to home, thousands of people and hundreds of companies were donating their time and services to help clean up the mess left by the deadly flood in the Colorado River. Assorted trucks of every variety, bulldozers, backhoes, and other heavy equipment were arriving from the four corners of the United States. Other trucks, many of them from Canada, were spreading fresh water and food supplies along the length of the river.
When the last boxes of personal gear were neatly packed in the Gulfstream's cavernous luggage compartment, Jackie and Scott went into the cabin and sat down in the leather club seats.
"I was just thinking about Shayhidi," Jackie said. "And?"
"His remaining ships are being sold--at least they're up for sale. There has to be a broker or an attorney involved, someone to go between Shayhidi and the prospective buyers."
"That's a good place to start," Scott admitted. "But I'm concerned that he's completely disappeared, vanished. Hartwell said the CIA is clueless, lost in a fog."
Jackie leaned back in her seat. "Someone has to be running the business on a daily basis. We know Shayhidi isn't showing up at his office and no one has intercepted any messages from him."
"Well, there's one thing the CIA knows. Two of Shayhidi's close associates flew to Crete and disappeared. One of them was Ahmed Musashi, who was acting as Shayhidi's company CEO. The other was a new hire named Hafiz al-Yamani, a longtime friend."
"What's the Agency's take on the disappearances?" Jackie asked. "Kidnapping, ransom?"
"They dont know. Witnesses saw the men arrive on the island, and others saw them at the Elounda Beach Hotel. They never returned to Geneva and have not been seen since."
She accepted a glass of tomato juice from Scott. "If memory serves me, that's one of those resorts where you have to take out a second mortgage to spend a night."
"That's right."
"Elounda Beach is Shayhidi's kind of place," Jackie remarked. "They may have gone there to meet with him."
"That may be true, but the surveillance cameras show Musashi and al-Yamani walking into the hotel and coming out with a man who wasn't Shayhidi. Plus Shayhidi wasn't registered, and no one resembling him checked in."
"It doesn't make sense," she said. "We need to see the tape, find out who walked out with Shayhidi's employees."
"Hartwell is having still photos made for us. He'll send them over to our office this morning."
"Well," Jackie began with a suspicious look, "there's something strange about the disappearance of Musashi and al-Yamani."
"That's right. It didn't happen by chance."
"Shayhidi doesn't do anything by chance." She waited until a Falcon 2000 taxied by. "New subject?"
"Sure."
Jackie caught Scott's eye. "After we finish at the office and get the photos from Hartwell, how about an old-fashioned backyard cookout this evening. Something special before we head for Geneva?"
"Sounds like a winner."
When they stepped out of the airplane, Jackie walked to their portable television while Scott went to the Explorer to get their Jeppesen international trip kit.
She reached for the ON/OFF switch and froze when she saw the Fox News Alert logo. Jackie stared at the familiar woman anchor, carefully listening to her every word.
"Scott, you're not going to believe this," she said, when he walked back into the hangar. "He's free--escaped this morning from a Phoenix hospital."
Dalton was confused. "Who's free
?"
"Farkas. They mentioned him by name."
Transfixed, he raised his hand. "Start from the top."
"Farkas escaped," she said, exasperation in her voice. "They referred to him as an international terrorist who had been injured in a helicopter crash."
"Damn! How could he escape?"
"I dont know."
Scott shook his head in total frustration. "I thought he was in critical condition."
"Apparently not anymore." A pained look crossed her face. "They reported that he killed a doctor who was making rounds, the same doctor who saved his life."
"That sorry, worthless bastard," Scott said angrily.
"And he severely injured a security guard posted outside the door. The guard heard a commotion and rushed into the room. Farkas took the guards gun, shot him twice, and then commandeered a car in the hospital parking lot. Hes still at large, and a manhunt is on."
Astounded, Scott was speechless for a moment. "Did they say anything about his condition?"
"No, just that he escaped."
Scott's jaw went rigid. "I'm tempted to finish it, kill the worthless bastard before he kills another few thousand innocent people."
Jackie turned off the television. "They have a widespread alert out, and every law enforcement agency in Arizona and the surrounding states is hunting for him. Let's not get sidetracked from our primary mission."
Her words prompted Scott to inject some calm into his emotions. "You're right, we've done everything we can. I just get frustrated."
"Let's relax, unwind, and enjoy the evening."
"I think we'll start early." He shut the door to the jet and locked it. "Let's go to the office, see how Mary Beth is getting along, check our mail, and pick up the photos."
A smile appeared on her face as she tossed him the keys to her Explorer. "You drive, and I'll work on the menu."
WHITENAN AIR FORCE BASE, MISSOURI
Five stealth aircraft from the 509th Bomb Wing were taking off at staggered intervals to bomb carefully selected underground bunkers throughout the Middle East. Other air force bombers, including B-1Bs and B-52S, would hit military targets and terrorist infrastructure. The conventional bombers would be augmented by night-attack F-117 stealth aircraft armed with two 2,ooo-pound Saddam Special laser-guided bombs. Seven of the aircraft were on their way to strike terrorist complexes in Libya. Three other F-117S were bound for Sudan.
Sixteen F-15 Strike Eagles were tasked with various missions and carried a wide variety of ordnance. Considered by many to be an F-4 Phantom on steroids, the versatile F-15 Strike Eagle was adept in both air-to-air and air-to-ground roles.
Over 140 carrier aircraft from the combined forces of George Washington, Stennis, Constellation, and Nimitz would contribute to the largest bombing campaign to date. This was an all-out effort. The navy and marine corps flight crews were primed and ready to terrorize the terrorists and their hosts. U. S. attack submarines and surface combatants would launch multiple Tomahawk missiles at highly defended sites before manned aircraft attacked them.
Over two dozen helicopters were providing combat search-and-rescue support. Other CSAR assets, including air force HH-60G Pave Hawks and navy HH-60H Seahawk strike-rescue helicopters, were standing by to launch on a moments notice.
GEORGETOWN
Scott and Jackie had closed their office early, allowing Mary Beth extra time to get ready for a date. When they arrived home, they decided to leave the television off. The continuing air strikes on the terrorist groups and their hosts were receiving wide media coverage, but Scott and Jackie wanted to kick back and take it easy. They had had enough bad news for one day.
They briefly studied the man in the photos with Shayhidis two missing employees and then packed the pictures in their luggage. After loading most of the last of their personal items into the Explorer, they were ready for their early morning flight to Gander.
"If you'll fix the cocktails," Scott said with a lazy smile, "I'll light the grill and set the table."
"You're on."
When they were finished with the smoked medley of lobster, shrimp, and salmon, Jackie and Scott cleared the patio table and loaded the dishwasher. After charging their glasses with wine, they reclined in chaise longues under the stars.
"Should we go to Crete first?" Jackie asked.
"I've considered it, but I think there are more answers in Geneva. For whatever reason, my guess is that Shayhidi had those two people killed."
Jackie stared at the heavens. "If that's true, and I don't doubt you, it must have been one hell of a falling out."
"Must have been." Scott turned to her. "We have to concentrate on Shayhidi, and I think Geneva is the key to finding him."
"Well, we'll be there tomorrow to get the lay of the land."
They remained quiet, each deep in thought. So much had happened in such a short period, in the United States and around the world. So many things Americans had taken for granted were now damaged or destroyed. The United States was bombing terrorist-harboring nations round the clock. When would logic prevail? When would reason again be the benchmark of civilization?
Jackie turned on her side and faced Scott. "If you don't mind, I'll take the first leg tomorrow."
"That's fine with me." Scott sat up on the edge of his chaise. "How about a stroll around the block?"
"Why not? Need to burn off some nervous energy."
THE WHITE HOUSE
All the players and their aides were gathered in the Situation Room while the first of five B-2S made their bombing runs using the new penetrating weapons. When the last stealth bomber completed its mission, nine out of the ten bunker complexes had been completely destroyed.
President Macklin, Dave Timkey, Brad Austin, Pete Adair, Hartwell Prost, and many others were monitoring the imminent press briefing at the Pentagon. The media hounds were in full whine and tugging on their leashes. Many of the reporters appeared to be salivating, waiting to sink their fangs into any of the knuckle-dragging Australopithecus cretins wearing a military uniform. They were about to meet the new 4 chief cretin" at the Pentagon.
Marine Corps Major General Walter "Wally1' Connaught stepped to the podium for his inaugural news briefing. Handsome, tall, choirboy smile, wide shoulders, and not an ounce of fat on his rugged frame, Wally was a highly decorated F/A-18 fighter pilot.
Brad Austin looked at President Macklin. "This should be worth the price of admission."
Macklin smiled, humor in his twinkling eyes. "I think Wally will hold his own in his first briefing at the day-care center."
In a clear, resonant voice, Connaught introduced himself to the frenzied crowd. The introduction elicited only harsh looks and unfriendly stares.
He placed his hands on the edges of the podium. "To answer the obvious question first: Yes, we used ten super-bunker busters on targets recognized as not friendly to the United States."
The place erupted.
General Connaught raised both hands to calm the riotlike atmosphere. "Okay, folks, we re going to have to inject some order and discipline into these exchanges. If everyone talks at once, it sounds like a foreign language: gibberish. The art of communication works best when we employ a pattern. You talk, I talk, you talk, et cetera. The concept is tried-and-true. I'll select the questioners, and the rest of you give them a chance to be heard."
From the indignant glares, Connaught was confident he had struck a collective nerve. He calmly pointed to a young woman who was beet red in the face and deeply frowning.
Her voice was high pitched and strained. "Why are you using these super-busters on countries, on--on--on people who cant defend themselves? Violence only leads to more violence."
Connaught maintained an air of detachment. "Before I answer the question, please take a few seconds to relax. Dont want anyone to faint," he deadpanned. "We are using super-bunker busters to penetrate deep underground fortifications containing weapons of mass destruction and/or the laboratories producing them. Violence does no
t always lead to more violence. However, ineffective, halfhearted, limp-wrist violence is guaranteed to lead to more violence."
He paused a couple of seconds, gazing at the sea of wide eyes.
"Overwhelming, concentrated, well-executed violence never leads to more violence because the enemy is dead. All of them are graveyard dead--end of the violence. No rehabilitation, no reeducation, simply dead. You get the picture?"
Another reporter raised his hand and was acknowledged. "How can you justify the use of secret super weapons in a--"
Connaught cut him off. "Its simple. Think of it as a game. They're trying to kill us. The object of the game is to kill them first."
He pointed to another reporter, a young man with long wavy hair. "You said you used ten super-bunker busters."
"That's correct," the general said pleasantly.
"How many casualties were there as a direct result of . . . of using the super-bunker busters?"
The general paused a moment. I can't believe this. Many of these people are too stupid to know they're stupid. "We're not sure, won't ever be sure." Connaught smiled. "The casualties all occurred fifty to sixty feet underground."
His audience was stunned.
The next question was about racial profiling, and the general almost laughed out loud. "Let me ask you a question. Who do you think is trying to kill us: New Zealanders, Icelanders? Of course we're profiling; we'd be fools if we didn't. Next question." And I thought flying a jet at night from a carrier deck was scary.
The general closely refereed the remainder of the question-and-answer period. Order and discipline were maintained, but Connaught had learned as much as, if not more than, the questioners. He knew he had experienced a microcosm of society that truly astounded him.
In the quiet Situation Room, it was clear to President Macklin and his staff that world opinion and the media hounds would be yapping at his heels. The president was not the least bothered by those lacking willpower or resolution. The handwringers would always be held hostage to blackmail and appeasement. He would continue thrashing the terrorists and their sponsors until they surrendered unconditionally. He would settle for nothing less. Until then, Macklin vowed to continue terrorizing the terrorists.
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