The NSA poured himself a cup of coffee. Gonzales waved off the offer. The cups were white stoneware mugs with the presidential seal emblazoned on opposite sides. The hot liquid felt good as Bud wrapped both hands around the mug. “It’s cold in here.”
Gonzales joined Bud, taking one of the seats around the antique coffee table. It sat near the Oval Office fireplace and closer to the president’s desk than the main door. “Mary said the building engineer is going to check on the AC in the morning.” He laughed. “The real morning.”
Really. Bud sipped his cup of caffeine. It was giving him the necessary jolt. He hadn’t wanted to wake the president, hoping that the NSC could get things under control. That wasn’t to be. The report from the Sixth Fleet required that, the need for sleep notwithstanding, he be roused.
“It’s amazing, Bud,” the COS began. “Two days ago we were really only functionaries. Second-string. Look at us now.” His voice trailed off in a melancholic tone. “Damned if I ever wanted to move up this way.”
The Oval Office was a lonely place. There were two men in the room, but each felt alone in many ways. It was an aura of solitude. Bud decided he wouldn’t trade places with the man for anything.
“What do you think’s up?”
Gonzales shrugged, running a hand over his quickly shaven face. “I don’t know, and he may not know, but he sure as hell is going to want a good estimate of what’s happening.”
What was happening? It was Bud’s question of the day.
He had at his disposal every military and civilian intelligence service, their analysts, and all the technological gadgetry available to them. They would already be working to identify the perpetrators and their intentions. But it was he who would have to make an intelligent assessment of the information and present recommendations to the president. It was the challenge he wanted, though a little more time to settle into the job before having this dumped on him would have been welcome.
Gonzales heard the clock’s minute hand click forward. It was that quiet. The president would be down any minute.
Both men rose as the door opened. It was a new reflex.
“Bud. Ellis.” The president wore a gray sweat suit and dirty white tennis shoes. The Secret Service hadn’t given him much time to dress. He took a seat across from his advisers. “What do we have?”
Bud pushed the mug away from the edge of the table and brought both hands together. “Mr. President, I’ve called in the NSC. They’re assembled in the situation room and the deputies group is also working. About an hour and a half ago an American carrier passenger flight, numbered 422, was hijacked out of Athens. Then, not very long ago, some of our naval aircraft tracking the jet near the North African coast had a confrontation with several Libyan fighters.”
The president was instantly awake. “Were there any casualties?”
“No, thankfully.” Bud wished he had written a brief, but there hadn’t been time. “There was fire exchanged, but the commander on the Vinson—that was the carrier involved—ordered his fighters to disengage.”
“Why?”
“Flight 422 was in the middle of the whole thing. Our fighters were trying to protect it as the Libyans approached in two groups. Our pilots believed the fighters were going to attack the 747, and their own command aircraft, so they fired. The Libyans returned fire.”
“And there were no casualties?” The president was a bit perplexed, and his face showed it.
“None. While the action was taking place the hijacked aircraft made a turn and headed toward the Libyan coast.”
“Could he have been maneuvering to avoid fire, or a missile?” the president asked.
Bud shook his head. “There were no missiles directed at the 747, and they wouldn’t have known if there were; commercial aircraft don’t carry the types of sensors that would indicate if they were targeted, and the Libyans were well out of their visual range.”
“My God,” the president said. “How many people on board?”
“Over three hundred,” Bud answered.
“Including the crew,” Gonzales added.
The president was silent for a moment. “Am I reading this the way it sounds?”
“I’m afraid so,” Bud affirmed. He couldn’t read the president’s mind, but the man was smart. “The aircraft made no radio calls indicating a course change, nor did it receive any; our command aircraft would have detected that. Plus, the two Libyan fighters that appeared to be in a position to attack flight 422 formed up to escort it.” Bud paused. “You can understand why the air group commander called off our fighters.”
“I can now.” The president was visibly upset. His mouth formed into a pout of seriousness. “So, Colonel Qaddafi has decided to become involved.”
“In a very large way, sir,” Bud added.
“The good colonel didn’t hold to his promises very long, did he? Well, we’ve got two incidents to deal with now.” The president made a point to keep the two happenings separate, though his mind was putting that which was obvious together. “I can’t keep Nate here. We need him over in Britain. They’re pretty pissed off, I understand. Not at us, just in general. He can do a lot to keep things calm. Bud, you’ll have to chair the NSC on this, and I want to be kept up-to-date. Every four hours, and more if you think it’s warranted.” He turned to his COS. “I remember the media circus some of the past hijackings have generated. You talk to Herman and set some guidelines for press contact on this. It could get messy. That’s just a feeling.
“Bud, what have we done so far?”
“Delta has been activated to start preparations for any contingency. The necessary agencies are working on why, how, and who. That’s the tough stuff to figure out in this kind of situation. After the council takes a look at it we may have more, but for now ...” Bud threw his hands apart.
“I don’t like the fact that these people always seem to be controlling us,” the president said. “We’re always reacting. And with the rest going on... So, an American aircraft is going to be landing in Libya. When?”
“About thirty minutes,” Bud replied.
The chief executive sat back into a thinking pose with one finger tracing circles on his chin. “This will not turn into another, flight 847,” he said, referring to the seventeen-day ordeal on the ground in Beirut.
Bud had one final thing to inform the president of. “Sir, there was a message from the aircraft just before the confrontation with the fighters.”
“We can’t take everything they say as truthful, sir,” the COS pointed out.
The president took his friend’s words, then looked back to Bud. “What was said?”
“They said they’re coming here.”
“Here?”
The NSA nodded. “To America.”
Flight 422
The coast was approaching fast. Mohammed Hadad crouched behind and between the pilots, his hand resting on the top of the arrogant copilot’s seat back. The man was nervous. Every few seconds he would cock his eyes to the left to see the trigger switch just four inches away. Hadad sensed more than saw this. Soon this man would be more frightened.
“You are a soldier,” Hadad stated. The barrel of his Uzi rested on the co-pilot’s shoulder.
Buzz’s jaw muscles spasmed at the tone. Fuck you! “Marine,” he said softly.
“Marine...” Hadad smiled, his head nodding. “Were you in Beirut, Marine? Did you murder the children of Beirut, Marine?”
Buzz tried to ignore the taunting, unsuccessfully, and the rising burning sensation in his neck tingled on the surface as hot met cold. Raghead asshole! He would have bitten his lip to control the anger...no, hatred welling up in him, but that would have given something away to the pirate. Anyway, snapping his neck would have been a better use of adrenaline.
“You.” Hadad stepped back to his seat. “You do not know or care what happens to the many children of those you oppress...do you?” There was no answer. “You will know. You will know.”
Captain
Hendrickson tried to block out the conversation. He knew that Buzz would kill this guy given the chance. He wanted to smile, but resisted when Buzz practically prayed the word Marine in response to the hijacker’s verbal jab. It was a fitting answer. His first officer was a gung ho jarhead if ever there was one. He had probably eaten guts and farted bullets at one time in his life. Marines did that for fun, he had heard.
As the Clipper Atlantic Maiden neared the coast the captain increased power in the four big engines. The warming air above the desert floor was thinner than that over the water and thus required more thrust from the turbofans to maintain lift A slight pull back on the control column added a little more nose-up attitude to the aircraft, and additional upward force. There was an immediate rise in the whine of the engines as their RPMs increased.
They were going to land. Captain Hendrickson had the stick, leaving Buzz to handle the minor duties required to set the huge aircraft down. The first officer keyed his mike to raise the tower.
Hadad jumped forward, striking Buzz with the Uzi’s barrel behind the left ear. A shallow gouge opened and filled with blood.
“No radio!”
Buzz’s hand came down bloodied from the left side of his face. He felt a cool trickle of blood on his neck. “You fucking—”
“Buzz!” The captain reached across the center console, grabbing his co-pilot. “Another time.” His eyes bored into those in the seat opposite him, into those of his friend. Buzz was more than his first officer. They had flown together too many times over the years to be just co-workers. “We have to fly her, Buzz. Another time. Okay? Another time.”
Hadad pulled back and smiled. “Listen to your cap-tan, Number Two. He is wise with his words.” But there will not be another time.
The old Marine swallowed his contempt and again wiped his reddened ear and neck. Rivulets of blood ran down and stained his collar a dark crimson. He shifted his stare to the pirate, whose face was lit with an unnatural glow from the sunlight filtering through the thick windscreen. He was half turned, facing the grinning pirate, whose eyes showed no fear, only power: the power that came with the gun and a planeload of unarmed innocents.
“If you wish to be first to die, Number Two, that would please me.” The smile left Hadad’s face.
Buzz turned back to the front and the attention of the aircraft. He scanned the instruments—they were all nominal. The captain was right. Now was the time to fly, to keep the Maiden flying. There would be another time. He touched his ear again. The blood flow seemed to be minor and slowing as clots formed at the source. At the same instant the Clipper Atlantic Maiden crossed the coastline.
* * *
Michael Alton held his wife’s hand as it lay across the armrest and touched his knee. Sandra’s fingers ran gentle, yet nervous figure eights on his jeans. He could sense her fear, though she would not show it. They had both seen the man, but Michael was one of the few passengers to recognize what he was carrying pressed against his side as a weapon. The couple looked at each other incredulously after the captain announced that they had been hijacked. This sort of thing happened only on the news, or in the movies—not to them.
Several of the flight attendants were doing their best to calm the upset passengers. The number of them was amazingly small. Michael figured it was because most people, like him, half believed it would all just suddenly end, like a dream when one wakes up. Probably the most unsettling thing was the very young stewardess who was beyond hysterical. Two of her co-workers had escorted her down from the upper deck with a group of passengers just before the captain’s announcement. One of them had her in the forward galley.
The other stood at the base of the stairs, glancing at the passengers with a feeble smile at times, but mostly her eyes were fixed upward.
Michael felt his wife squeeze his fingers in her palm. Sandy was his life, his reason for living. Their children were precious and more important to him than anything, except her. At least they were home safe with her parents. If they didn’t make it home the kids would be taken care of. If they did make it out of this, Michael swore that he would listen to his wife the next time they planned a vacation. She had wanted to go to Maui.
* * *
The aircraft circled once at his direction and was now entering the empty landing pattern for a visual approach. Hadad checked his watch. It would be happening now, he knew, and the smile again came to his face.
London
The noise from the traffic two blocks away was momentarily masked by the sharp crack of an explosion. There was little flash visible on Winslow—the blast originated farther back in the second-floor flat—but the sound and visible effect at the front of the three-story stone-faced structure were pronounced. Shards of wood, stone, and glass rained down upon the empty street and sidewalk. A groaning came from the building as the initial roar of the blast subsided. The horizontal support members between the first and second, and second and third, floors were breached, and the upper stories settled downward, pushing the ground floor into the basement. Surprisingly, there was no fire following the collapse, only a panicked scream from someone inside the devastated structure.
Less than four hundred meters away a young Irishman dialed the Scotland Yard operator and delivered a message that he recited verbatim from memory. The operator passed the information to the inspector on duty at the Domestic Terrorism desk. He received it at the same time the first calls came in on the explosion. He immediately notified the explosive ordnance detail and left for number 316 Chatham, where the caller said another bomb would be found.
Five
SAINTS AND SINNERS
Los Angeles
The door slammed. It must have. He heard the sound of wood on wood and the rattle of the latch, but it should have been louder. Shouldn’t it? Who was it? Who? Who?
“Art,” the familiar female voice called to him.
Art’s eyes flickered open. He reached up, rubbing the sleepiness away as best he could. There was a heavy aroma of fresh coffee ... and vanilla. But... “Carol?”
She was there, with the coffee only she could brew. Not that packaged foofoo crap that smelled like cake. It was her recipe. Art used to laugh at that: She had a recipe for coffee. “Your pot was cold, Arthur. Jerry tells me there’s a report to get ready.”
He pulled himself up, first on his elbows and then to a head-hanging sitting position. His shirt back was wet and his mouth was heavy with a filmy taste. “Guess I dozed off for a while.”
“A while?” Carol set the glass pot on the desk blotter. “You, young man, did more than doze off—it’s almost two A.M.”
“What?”
Her hands found their familiar position on her hips, which, along with the twisted look, signaled her displeasure. She was gruff and caring, much like Art’s grandma. “Listen.” A single finger aimed at his nose. “You were asleep. Jerry looked in and saw you and decided to call me. He thought you might need some help, so don’t start fussing.”
“Jesus, Carol.”
“Don’t ‘Jesus’ me, young man.”
Young man, hah! Only in comparison, though her sixty-three years had been kind to her. He would tell her, and she thought jokingly, that she didn’t look an hour past fifty.
“Now drink your coffee.” She poured the first cup and handed it to him. “Jerry’s already gone home and Eddie’s taking a nap at the Hilton. I spoke to him about ten and he said he’d call and wake you if the information came in. I typed up what you already had—and corrected your spelling—so you can just pick up where you left off.”
“Ehh!” Art coughed. The vanilla coffee was hot. And it did give him that kick he needed. Getting to his feet was easy after four sips.
“I’ll be at my desk—awake—when you need me,” she said, giving Art a wink as she pulled the door.
Art took stock of himself. “I must look like shit,” he mumbled aloud. A quick check of the pedestal mirror behind his desk confirmed the suspicion. He had left the file drawer half open be
fore pausing. Why change shirts now, he wondered. Before him, neatly arranged, were the typed pages of the report and a fresh legal pad. He smiled and softly chuckled.
“Okay, Arthur,” he said aloud, “from the top.”
Fort Belvoir
Number 8601 had raced across the sky at eight thousand miles per hour to a point over the North African coast where the Gulf of Sidra reached its farthest point inland, roughly above the town of Al-Uqaylah. Along its path it gradually dove from its previous altitude of 450 miles to a position in near earth orbit—108 miles above sea level. The position was practically perfect for photoreconnaissance, weather permitting, but uncomfortably close to the dense atmosphere closer to the earth. Already sensors on the surface of the KH-12 ENCAP—Enhanced Capability—had detected a rise in temperature as the huge satellite skirted the upper reaches of significantly measurable atmosphere. The friction with the heavy—compared to the vacuum of space—gases created heat. Several pumps were alerted to the buildup of heat and began sending additional amounts of cryogenic coolant to the heat-sensitive photoreceptors—the infrared eyes of the spacecraft.
When it reached its destination it was slowed, then stabilized, by tiny but powerful hydrazine rockets that aligned the “barrel” of the satellite at a predetermined reference point. Controllers at the Consolidated Space Operations Center in Colorado Springs then passed control of the KH-12 ENCAP, the first in its series, to the technicians at Fort Belvoir. In one relatively small room in the windowless cube-shaped structure that was the Keyhole ground station, two technicians sat at their control consoles. They were in control of the ‘bird,’ as they called it, though any maneuvering would still need to be done from CSOC.
“How long?” one of the National Security Agency officials asked. He was actually an Army colonel. His companion was a civilian officer of the NSA.
The senior technician did not look at the two ‘suits’ who sat behind. He was moving a computer mouse, directing a cursor as it danced across a secondary CRT, which was dwarfed by the wall-mounted seventy-inch monitor. “A minute, sir.” Sir! These guys expected a bird to do a speed run, slam on the brakes, and start transmitting wedding portraits. And they wore the suits.
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