by Mark Terry
Michael Hoban was a National Park ranger, one of not nearly enough who were stationed in the Angeles National Forest. Part of his early morning job was to drive around the various tourist and parking sites and check to make sure that the vehicles had Adventure Pass stickers on their cars. It was just routine, right up there with pulling over drunk drivers, helping change tires, calling tow trucks for drivers whose cars couldn’t handle the steep mountain grades, or rescuing hikers whose ambitions had outstripped their physical fitness.
Pulling into the lot, the first thing he noticed was the Ford Explorer parked near the restrooms. This was more of a picnic area of sorts than a hiking spot. In truth, it was a bigger area for kids to come and make out—or he supposed “make out” was old-fashioned; today they just had sex, skipped the smooching entirely and called it “hooking up.” The evening shift spent a lot of their time chasing kids out of the woods, although the sex wasn’t as big a deal as the drinking and the drug use.
Hoban screeched to a stop when he saw the woman lying in the parking lot. She was dressed in some sort of foreign clothing—Arab or Middle Eastern, something. Not quite robes, but definitely not western. And she looked—
He slammed to a halt and ran over to her. Then he saw the blood. Her hands were pressed to her stomach, which was soaked with blood. So much blood—
Radio to his lips, he called for emergency medical services. Sprinting back to his Jeep, he grabbed the first-aid kit, thinking, There’s nothing in here that’s going to help. She’s been shot, for God sakes!
Kneeling next to her, he went to work. The woman opened her eyes and seemed to take him in for a moment, before her eyes sank shut. From her mouth came a moan and something that sounded like “Malika.”
What the hell’s a Malika? he wondered.
Dragging a fully armed Stinger missile at the same time he was trying to keep an eye on a ten-year-old girl was more difficult than Kalakar anticipated. The terrain was no help either. After ditching the truck back in the parking lot, Kalakar had hauled the Stinger out of its crate and cut the duct tape off the little girls’ arms, warning her that if she tried to run, he would shoot her. No warning; no second chance. He didn’t like having her loose, but she was his insurance policy in case things went to hell.
The missile weighed about thirty-five pounds. It was about five feet long. They were a mile high. The air was thin and smoggy. Kalakar was strong, but his wounds, the altitude, and the weight of the missile were exhausting him. His heart struggled in his chest and the air felt thin and insubstantial in his lungs.
The observatory was really a complex with several telescopes and what looked like water towers, but were actually solar telescopes. Kalakar had never been here and under other circumstances would have been fascinated by all the technology. Right now he had other things on his mind. He needed to get into the open where he could see to the north and northwest. At the moment they were hustling along a mountain path. Malika hadn’t said a word.
Kalakar glanced at his watch. The governor’s plane would be flying over in only a few minutes. He picked up his pace, moving as fast as he could along the path.
O’Reilly and Derek scanned the area. Derek said, “My guess is north and northwest. Which is—”
Pointing, O’Reilly said, “Let’s go.” She took off at a jog. Derek raced after her as best he could. They were both walking wounded, beat up, shot, burned, and operating on caffeine and adrenaline. They found themselves on a hiking path that wound through the trees, the multiple telescopes, antennae, and buildings of the Mt. Wilson Observatory visible over and between the trees.
After about a minute of jogging, they broke out into a clearing. The view was tremendous. They could see for miles and miles, an entire mountain range visible below their feet.
A hundred yards away, near the edge of a steep drop-off, stood two people. A man and a girl.
Derek pointed, “Look!”
Maybe a mile or two away a small jet was flying over the mountains, heading roughly southwest. Simultaneously they sprinted toward Kalakar and Malika.
CHAPTER 71
Kalakar set the case for the Stinger missile on the hard rocky ground and clicked it open. Despite his pain and exhaustion he was flooded with adrenaline, almost joyful at the near completion of his mission. Finally!
He focused on the Stinger, setting it up. It didn’t take long. For a moment he lost track of his environment—of the incoming jet, of Malika. It was going to be a warm day, very clear with little of the usual brown L.A. smog. A breeze of about ten miles per hour rustled the trees. It was just him and the missile, preparing to change destiny.
Malika said, “What are you doing?”
He glanced up. He couldn’t help it. He smiled at her. “What I came to this country to do.”
“I don’t—”
“Sshhh, little one. We’re almost done.”
He shouldered the missile launcher and pointed it toward where he had last seen Governor Stark’s jet. In Pakistan when he was in the military, and later in Afghanistan as a Taliban fighter, he had used a variety of MANPADs, including the Stinger. It wasn’t difficult to use, although visually sighting in on a moving target could be a little tricky. The launcher had an IFF antenna that locked in on the target, buzzing when it was locked.
Kalakar, with a sort of grim amusement, remembered that IFF stood for identification, friend or foe.
He brought the launcher around, waiting for the IFF to lock in on the Gulfstream III.
“Is that a missile?” Malika asked.
“Yes,” he said tersely.
“You’re going to shoot down that jet?”
“You need to stop talk—”
The launcher buzzed. It had locked in on the governor’s jet.
The little girl stepped toward him. He barely saw her movement out of the corner of his eye. Kalakar felt a sharp, intense pain and bent over, gagging. The little bitch had kicked him in the crotch and was now sprinting toward the tree line, screaming her head off.
And he saw two people, a man and a woman, rushing toward him, guns drawn.
Onboard the governor’s jet, Donna Price and Governor Stark were going over his script for the rally in L.A. when the copilot appeared in the cabin. He was a clean-cut ex-Air Force pilot turned commercial pilot, maybe thirty, clean shaven except for a thick mustache. His face looked the color of bleached bone. Even as he spoke, they could feel the movement of the jet as they turned.
“Sir, we’ve just been contacted by Homeland Security. We’re moving out of this airspace now. They’re pretty certain a terrorist has a Stinger missile and is in these mountains with it. Please fasten your seatbelt and—”
Price jumped to her feet. “We absolutely are not turning around. The governor has to make that rally. We’ve already changed our plans—”
The copilot stared her blankly, then turned back toward the cabin. “It’s not up for discussion, ma’am. Fasten your seat belt.”
“You don’t have the authority—”
“Yes, ma’am, I do. And unless you plan on flying—” The copilot’s eyes grew wide. Suddenly he lunged forward toward the cockpit as the plane lurched and went into a steep dive, accelerating.
Derek saw Malika kick Kalakar. Good girl!
Kalakar stumbled, dropped the Stinger and spun, crouched over. It was clear to Derek that Kalakar had seen them. But they were still about forty yards away. Probably less than a mile away he could see the jet.
Still running, O’Reilly raised her gun and fired at Kalakar. Derek knew she didn’t stand a chance in hell of hitting him from this distance, but maybe distraction was enough. If they could just keep him away from the missile until the plane was out of range, all they would have to do was take down the terrorist.
Kalakar returned fire. Derek heard the zing of a bullet passing nearby.
The terrorist adjusted his aim to fire at the little girl. Seeing it, O’Reilly shouted, “Get the girl!”
Derek cut off at a
n angle to intercept Malika, who was sprinting more or less toward them. He fired toward Kalakar and with some satisfaction, thought he had hit him.
Kalakar stumbled. He felt as if he had been punched in the shoulder. Looking down, he saw blood seeping into his shirt. He’d been shot. Again!
Raising his other hand, he fired at the man, twice, three times—
Spinning, he fired off a round at the woman, who tumbled to the ground. Got her!
Kalakar thought that Allah must be helping him, giving him time to complete his mission. Kneeling, he snagged up the Stinger and slung it over his good shoulder, gritting his teeth at the pain. He searched the sky for the jet. To his dismay, it was turning away from him, heading for a ridge of mountains.
Setting his feet, he aimed the Stinger toward the jet. It was growing distant, a speck. He prayed, “Ash-hadu an laa ilaaha illallaah.” I bear witness that there is no god but Allah.
“Allahu Akbar.” God is great.
The IFF seeker buzzed. Locked on! Kalakar fired the missile.
The launch rocket blasted the missile from the launcher, flying out into the air. A moment later the launch rocket dropped away and the solid rocket booster kicked in with a roar. The missile streaked toward the jet.
“Allahu Akbar.” Turning around, Kalakar saw that the woman was closing in on him. He raised his gun and fired. The woman spun. Kalakar thought, I hit her. She’s down.
He shifted his attention to the man, who was off to his left, lying on the ground. Blood soaked the man’s shirt, but he was still alive. The man was shouting at Malika, “Run! Run back and get help! Go! Now!”
Kalakar turned, tried to raise his gun in both hands, but his left arm wouldn’t cooperate. His own wounds were weakening him. He hadn’t even realized how much blood he had lost. He lifted it with his right arm and aimed. He squeezed the trigger.
CHAPTER 72
Derek felt like he had been pinned to the ground with a giant nail. He had been shot in the back. Falling forward on the ground, he tried to roll over and get back to his feet, but the pain blasting through his body was so intense that he laid where he was, struggling for breath.
And couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe. And he couldn’t get up.
The little girl, Malika, stopped, turning to look at him, eyes big and brown and frightened. “Are you—”
“Run,” he shouted, struggling to suck air into his lungs. “Run back and get help! Go! Now!”
She turned and jack-rabbited toward the tree line.
With a monstrous groan, Derek rolled onto his side. Pain radiated out from his back and chest. The difficulty breathing and the pain suggested he possibly had a collapsed lung. Looking down, he didn’t see any blood on his chest. The bullet hadn’t gone through. He supposed that was a good thought, although he wondered where the slug was. Was it edging toward his heart? Lodged in a lung? Next to an artery?
Struggling to stay conscious, he tried to locate Kalakar and O’Reilly. Where were they?
Then he heard the whoosh and roar of the missile being launched and thought: We were too late.
When Kalakar fired at O’Reilly for the last time, she spun, throwing herself to the ground. She had felt the bullet as it bit at her neck. She felt something wet and realized she was bleeding. Pressing her fingers to her neck, she thought, I got lucky. Half an inch to the left and I’d be dead. That’s the second time I’ve been lucky today.
Kalakar must have thought she was dead or injured enough not to be dangerous. He ignored her, going after Derek, who was on the ground, alive, but hurt. O’Reilly lunged to her feet, gun raised. She fired. The bullet struck Kalakar in the shoulder. He reeled, staggered, then returned fire, aiming for the little girl, although she was nearly to the trees. O’Reilly fired again.
Kalakar bent double, arms bent over his gut. Blood soaked his shirt. He dropped slowly to his knees and toppled over onto his side.
O’Reilly approached cautiously, gun held carefully in her left hand. Her right arm was still in its sling. Kalakar still clutched his handgun. He seemed to be muttering to himself. Praying, she thought.
“Drop the gun,” she said.
His gaze shifted. He said, “Allahu Akbar.”
“Drop the gun,” she repeated.
He suddenly twisted, brought the gun up and fired. O’Reilly felt the jolt through her chest. She fell backward to the ground. Tried to get up, tried to move. Only eight or nine feet away she saw Kalakar lying there on the ground, eyes dark, a smile on his face, muttering a prayer.
O’Reilly, with her last bit of consciousness, brought her gun around and aimed it at Kalakar. She saw his eyes grow wide in shock.
She emptied the weapon.
Captain Charles Windham was already moving the Gulfstream III out of the area when his radar showed an incoming object. Windham had flown F14s in Iraq in ’91 and he didn’t need a refresher course on Stinger missiles. They flew 1,400 knots per hour and the Gulfstream topped out at 490. They couldn’t outrun it. Their only hope was evasion.
He spun the Gulfstream onto its left wing, throttled up to full speed, simultaneously going into a steep dive toward the trees. He could hear the screams of his passengers. His copilot, Jim Moore, flopped into the seat next to him and craned to look out the windows. “Two o’clock!”
Windham kicked the Gulfstream up and over the nearest mountain ridge, skimming the trees and boulders. He dived deeply down the side of the mountain, crossing past a road, dropping the jet into a valley filled with shadows. The Gulfstream’s wingspan was seventy-seven feet, ten inches.
“Still on our six and closing.”
This early in the morning on this side of the mountains it was almost like the middle of the night, the sun behind the trees. His visual status was a disaster.
And Windham saw that the valley ended. Another mountain, a sheer granite cliff face.
“Hang on!”
Gripping his armrest, staring out the window at the dark trees swooping by, Governor Stark thought: so this is terror.
Windham jerked the controls, kicked the pedals, and tried to get the Gulfstream to behave like a fighter jet. The sheer rock wall disappeared from view as the Gulfstream swung to the right, wings biting at the thin mountain air. It was a maneuver the commercial jet was not built for and he wondered if it would hold together.
In a screamingly steep, angular climb, Jim Moore shouted, “We’re clear. We’re clear.”
A reverberating sound could be heard from behind and below them as the Stinger missile slammed into the cliff face.
Bringing the jet out of its climb, Windham used his sleeve to wipe the sweat off his face. “Better go check on our guests.”
Moore patted him on the shoulder. “That was some fancy flying, Captain.” He walked back to tell the governor and his staff that they were safe. Glancing out the window, he saw a Medivac helicopter roaring into a lower section of the park and an LAPD helicopter dropping onto the ground near the Mt. Wilson Observatory.
Wonder what the hell happened over there?
The LAPD helicopter landed near where Derek lay. He came to just long enough to see Detective Connelly jump out, gun drawn, and run over toward him. Connelly said, “You’re alive. Hang on, man. We’ll get you to the hospital.”
“Find the … little … girl.”
“Got it. Got it. I’m going to check on O’Reilly.”
“Connelly—”
“What?”
But Derek was no longer conscious.
CHAPTER 73
It was almost midnight in Islamabad and Dale Hutchins was tired. His butt ached, his shoulder hurt, and the tension was like an electrical current applied to his nuts. He and his boss, Sam Sherwood, were at the U.S. Embassy with Ambassador Miller Kallendar, the CIA station chief, and a handful of State Department people whose exact names and job titles remained a mystery.
They were joined by Firdos Moin and his boss. Their task was to explain to the Pakistani government and the U.S. Embassy the cours
e of their investigation into Kalakar’s movements in Pakistan and his support by members of the Pakistani government. Hutchins wasn’t really happy that his name was being attached to a document that had the potential to destroy relations between the U.S. and Pakistan. He understood the blame game played by government bureaucrats, and as the lowest ranking U.S. official in the room, he knew where most of the shit was likely to land. Most worrying to Hutchins was the presence of Khalil-ui Mouseff, an advisor to Pakistan’s leader, President Tarkani. Mouseff was the Pakistani equivalent of the United States’ National Security Advisor.
Firdos and Hutchins made their report and everybody listened intently, then peppered them with questions.