Cloudburst

by Pearson, Ryne Douglas

“What about the body?”

  “Satellite evidence indicates it’s still on the runway,” Bud answered. “We’ll work with the Red Cross to have it returned, as soon as the Libyans open up.”

  In an hour and a half he would be walking past the body of the slain president, its casket closed for obvious reasons. He would offer a silent prayer for the man, but what could he do for the other murdered American? As president he was expected to provide leadership and answers for the American people. What would he tell them? What could possibly be done to end this madness of terror against innocents? He didn’t know, but he would have to. The public would want a solution. Lip service and hollow offerings, as had been the norm in the past, would not suffice. That was not his way. Whatever was decided would have to satisfy his sense of right as well as that of the people, and it would have to be effective.

  “And some of our speculation appears to have been at least close to the mark,” Bud said. “I want to show you the last part again.” He reversed the recording for only a few seconds. “Now here we see the aircraft start its takeoff roll. It’s going awfully slow—this is actual time, no compression or slow mo—and here”—Bud pointed to the screen with his pen, leaning in—“we have four good exhausts from the engines, so it appears to be very heavy. Moderately overweight at the least. She’s passing the halfway point here.”

  They had watched the images only a few minutes earlier. The scene still caused the president to grimace. The small object on the right wing slid backward and off. It disappeared out of frame as the aircraft continued on.

  “And now...” Bud touched the remote, freezing the picture. “This is where they lift off. See, the shadow is changing horizontally under and to the side of the nose.” He let the image progress, then froze it again. “And the main gear. That’s only about two hundred feet from sand.”

  “That’s one hell of a pilot,” the president commented.

  The COS opened his folio. “His name is Bart Hendrickson. He flew big Air Force stuff. Eight years total in uniform. He’s been with the airline for about thirty years. Their home office says he’s about as experienced as one can get. His co-pilot is a former Marine fighter pilot, Adam Elkins.”

  “The Agency is working on some weight estimates,” Bud said.

  “But...” The president urged a continuance.

  “But so far it only adds weight to the worst-case scenario.”

  Gonzales’s folio slapped shut. “Sir, these developments are serious. The rules have changed.”

  “Ellis, please.” The president stood and took a few steps, then turned back to face his aides.

  “What Ellis means, sir, is that the tide of events has turned. In Britain the SAS would be called in—formally. That’s the way the British do it. There is no second chance for the terrorists once they’ve shed blood. Negotiations are used only to buy time and put the situation in the best possible position for action. We have now reached that point and the only decision we should have to make is which party is the culprit. And, what will be the best response to the situation.”

  He felt old, and if the president could have seen his own face with its pursing lips, he would be aghast at the gesture. “I agree. Recommendations?”

  “Sir, we put Delta in a go mode and put them in the air.”

  The COS nodded agreement.

  “To where, Bud?”

  “That aircraft is going to have to set down somewhere. We can have Delta there, either ahead of them or right behind. No matter where that may be, all Delta has to do is shadow them until they show their hand. In-flight refueling can keep them up as long as we need.”

  “It’s at least a lot more than we’re doing now,” Gonzales added.

  The president gestured a go. “Make it happen, Bud. Any final authorization comes from me.”

  “Understood.”

  “Does Granger have the contingency plans ready?”

  “I’ve looked over the preliminary report,” Bud answered. “He’s going to present a full, detailed run through today.”

  “Good. Bud, I need your review ASAP. I’ll be back from the viewing about twelve-thirty.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bud knew that ASAP did not mean whenever you can get to it—it meant now.

  “I’m sorry you can’t attend,” the president said apologetically. Bud had admired the late president greatly. But...

  “So am I, Mr. President.”

  Springer Seven-Three

  The Frisbee-shaped dome above the E3 AWACS rotated continuously. Inside, a crew considerably larger than that of Hammer Two-Seven monitored the progress of the hijacked jet and the pair of swept-wing F-14s from the Vinson on its tail. They had arrived on station just east of Gibraltar a few moments earlier and, after clearing the airspace around them, had begun tracking Flight 422 as it headed west.

  “Target, course change,” the chief radar operator announced.

  The commander swiveled his chair, stood, and walked down three consoles. He plugged his headset into the auxiliary jack. “Where’s he going, Lieutenant?”

  “Two-six-oh true, sir. Right for the Strait.”

  “And us. He’s angels three-zero, huh?” the green-suited commander asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  A flip of the intercom selector switch connected him to the cockpit. “Pilot, take us up. We’ve got a target, angels three-zero, range one hundred, and he’s coming straight on at three hundred plus. Clear us. Copy?” After the acknowledgment he switched back to cabin intercom.

  “Holding two-six-oh true, sir.”

  “Yep. Com, get those Navy jocks back to their boat. That bird belongs to Air Force now.”

  “Roger that.” The radar operator smiled.

  Benghazi

  Revolution Avenue was a row of ivory-colored low-rise buildings in the eastern section of Benghazi. They were exclusive buildings, all apartments that the ‘average’ Libyan could never hope to live in, or enter. Government officials and ranking military officers were the privileged few who could secure an apartment there, for use as a primary residence or a second ‘home.’

  Muhadesh entered the center tower at Number 7 through the simply landscaped courtyard which continued into the structure as an atrium. The decor was sparse but attractive, something unusual in a country where niceties were often associated with the wickedness of the West, and strange when the living conditions of its people were considered. He didn’t consider himself to be a socially conscious person, but it did bother him. What meager resources his country had were supposed to provide as good a life as possible for the people. Muhadesh knew better, having seen where the money went.

  The sounds of the afternoon traffic faded with the closing of the elevator doors, replaced by the hum and friction sounds as he was lifted to the fourth floor. Captain Ibrahim Sadr’s apartment was halfway down the magenta-carpeted hall that ran straight from the elevator. Muhadesh could see the entire corridor from the elevator. On his left were the odd-numbered rooms: 401, 403, 405, 407...and 409, the one he wanted. He approached the door, removing the pistol from inside his coat and placing it in his back waistband. His toughened hand knocked for thirty seconds before the door opened fully.

  Captain Sadr, wearing a white bathrobe, stood framed by the doorway. His bushy black mustache and hair showed evidence of sleep, or...

  Of course, Muhadesh thought. Slime, through and through.

  “Captain Ibrahim Sadr?” Muhadesh knew it was, but needed to size up his quarry. He put both hands on his hips, bringing the right one closer to the Beretta.

  “Yes. Who are you?” Sadr asked impatiently, leaning on the open door and obviously annoyed at the intrusion.

  “Captain Muhadesh Algar—Third Training Battalion. May I speak to you privately?” Both hands were now behind his back at an ‘at rest’ stance, with the right hand gripping the compact pistol.

  Sadr looked at Muhadesh incredulously. “I am occupied, idi—”

  The last word froze in his throat. Muhadesh brought t
he gun up from his waistband and pointed it at Sadr’s center of mass. Simultaneously, his left hand gathered at the captain’s loose robe collar, pushing him inside as he quietly ordered silence. With a kick of his foot the door closed behind.

  “Wha—”

  The silencer touched Sadr’s lips. It convinced him.

  Muhadesh removed an altered pair of handcuffs from his jacket. They looked strangely like leg irons, less the chain, these being connected by a length of steel cable.

  “Turn around,” Muhadesh whispered. Sadr turned and reflexively brought his hands behind his back, aware of what was happening now. He was pushed firmly against the wall and cuffed. The chromed steel was cold, but worse, it was tight—very tight. Muhadesh spun him roughly to his right to face the hall. It led to an open area, a gathering room, and to another hall on the right.

  “Where is she?”

  Sadr gulped his spit. “The bedroom.”

  Muhadesh followed the directional shake of the head down the hall to the right, with his prisoner ahead. The three doors at the end were all closed.

  “Which one?”

  “Ibrahim.” The distinctly female voice, sounding perturbed at the apparent interruption of activities, pierced the door on the right.

  “Stay quiet, my friend.” Muhadesh put Sadr to his front and opened the door quickly with his gun hand. Both men stepped into the Spartan bedroom, surprising the pretty woman who sat upright against the headboard. Her upper body was exposed to the intruder. She was not a very young woman, but extremely beautiful, which surprised Muhadesh. He had pegged Sadr as one who would like the fresh, youthful girls, as did he. It was not a proud self-admission.

  “Ibrahim!” Her voice was pleading now. Reflexively she brought her hands up to cover her ample breasts, then set them back on the sheet at either side, clutching the white linen into bunches. She looked terrified. Sadr saw her eyes widen and wondered why. He couldn’t see the slender silenced pistol come up below his right elbow, but he did hear a pair of muffled pops. Muhadesh put two hollow-point rounds into her head, one entering dead center on her forehead and the other just below the left eye. Her head was slammed back against the wooden headboard with a fleshy crack. Before it flopped forward a small fountain of blood spurted onto her face, torso, and the sheets, turning them a dark red. Death made the muscles contract, become rigid, then relax, causing the body to fall sideways onto the pillows.

  “What...”

  “Quiet, my friend.” Muhadesh tugged the captain back into the hall and led him from behind into the gathering room. There was a prayer mat near the window, a sight that quietly angered the onetime doctor of death. For all his doubts and transgressions, he was devout in his beliefs, applying the teachings of the Koran to himself as much as possible. It disturbed him that he was not pure in his following of Islam, but it bothered him more that this prima donna was going to commit adultery and then offer himself up for forgiveness and salvation during afternoon prayers.

  “On your stomach,” Muhadesh commanded. Sadr fell on his front with unwanted help from his captor.

  “What do you want?” Sadr turned his head from side to side, trying to see his tormentor. A boot was pressed on the small of his back, the cable between the cuffs underfoot.

  “Captain Sadr, you will tell me what I require, or you will die most unpleasantly. Do you understand?”

  “You will not succeed, Algar. Aaah!”

  The knee pressed on the back of the struggling physicist, causing a sharp pain that was centered just above his buttocks. It was only a hint of what was to come. Muhadesh pulled the cable up to Sadr’s head, twisting it halfway before looping it over and around his neck until both hands were pulled high up on the back, each nearly touching the opposite shoulder blade. There was a painful grunt, then a raspy groaning as the cable was pulled taut across Sadr’s throat below the notch of his Adam’s apple.

  “Cahhh! Cahhh!” He couldn’t scream with any force, and struggling to keep his hands high enough to relax the pull was useless; the human body’s muscles didn’t work to that extent. The strangle hold continued.

  Muhadesh produced another set of restraints, similar to the first but with longer cables and larger cuffs. He locked one around one ankle, looped the cable over that connecting the hands, and clicked the other one around the other ankle.

  Sadr’s feet were pulled up to his butt by the connection. The resulting pull made the already deadly choking all the more painful and frightening.

  “Now, Captain Sadr, enjoy your predicament for a moment before I come to the purpose of my visit.” He watched his captive struggle to slacken the cable that was starving his lungs of oxygen. The heavy infantry boot kept him planted solidly facedown on the carpet. Soon his chest would feel the lire of asphyxiation, but first...

  “Aagh. Cahh.” The guttural gasping was wet and weak, and was followed by a strained hissing as Muhadesh released the tension pulling the wrist cuffs toward the head.

  “The air is sweet, eh? Yes, yes. You are aware of my background, surely, and you must know that simply allowing you to strangle yourself would just not do. I have better ways, much better ways. But,” Muhadesh said, kneeling down on the floor and putting his face close to the carpeting, “we do not have to go that route. You can tell me what I require, and...you go free.”

  The sweat beaded down from Sadr’s forehead into his eyes. He tried to blink it away, unsuccessfully, and salty drops began to sting his bulging eyes.

  “Now, very simply, I will ask you—what did you supervise the loading of onto the American plane?”

  “Traitor!”

  The raspy words of contempt and accusation elicited no emotional response.

  “What was it that was loaded?”

  Sadr’s silence was met with a renewal of the strangling wire’s tightening. As he once again fought to breathe, Muhadesh removed a small switchblade from his back pocket, clicking its three-inch double-edge blade open. He pushed the sharp point into the soft flesh and muscle where the captain’s right leg joined his buttock. There was an attempted scream through the constricted throat, sounding more like a great rumbling caught high in his chest. Sadr’s squirming only added to the pain of the knife, which Muhadesh continually applied pressure to.

  The blade was suddenly withdrawn and wiped on the robe. The pressure of the cable was also relieved once again.

  “Ah!... No... Ah...”

  “Now, my friend, you will answer the question. If you resist again, you will die in pain.”

  Muhadesh looked over the prostrate captain. The Darling of Tajoura was helpless, a victim of his own weakness. He had seen Sadr in his element while training a group of Iranian Revolutionary Guards for a possible suicide attack on the Israeli Dimona research reactor. Arrogant. Ruthless with his subordinates. A precise, calculating leader, who tolerated no lapses in performance, even in himself. He made no mistakes, except, as Muhadesh now knew, in his personal life.

  When he had received the strange-looking photograph in a fax he had recognized it instantly. The profile, even with the cartoonlike enhancement, was unmistakably Captain Ibrahim Sadr. It was amazing, the technological wizardry of the Americans. Where it came from he could only guess.

  “Once more, Captain, you know the question.”

  A click of the knife blade was all that was needed. Captain Sadr was not a hardened soldier trained in the methods of resistance. His rank was ceremonial, bestowed upon him years earlier by a grateful Colonel Qaddafi, who wanted the European-educated physicist bound by the honor of the Libyan Army uniform. Sadr enjoyed the recognition and privileges that came with the smart-looking dress greens, but that was where the charade of honor ended. Discipline and a stomach for resistance did not come with the trousers and tunic. He could not bear the thought of more pain, or the agony of oxygen deprivation. Muhadesh listened carefully for the five minutes it took his source to explain the particulars. He asked a few questions, which were promptly answered. There were some things he would
need to take note of, including diagramming a device from the description. That could be sketched in his pocket notebook once he left. First...

  Ibrahim Sadr felt the cable tighten again just as he exhaled. He wished he had inhaled first, something that made the other short stretches without air just bearable, but soon he realized that it did not matter. It did not abate this time. There was no saving breath to quench his lungs’ desire. His usefulness had been exhausted. Fighting would do no good. He simply closed his eyes, his last conscious, voluntary act.

  The body twitched and shook involuntarily as the captain’s dying brain lost control of its host. A few minutes later the alimentary canal opened, releasing bodily refuse and fluids. It was a most unpleasant smell that followed, though it did not bother Muhadesh—he was already in the courtyard four floors below, walking casually to his vehicle. He was calm, truly. The information-gathering part of his mission was done. The rest would be easy. Confidence came with the rank.

  The Pentagon

  “A very thoroughly thought-out operation,” Bud commented as the briefing ended. “Thank you.”

  The Joint Chiefs director of Operations laid the pointer on the map wall ledge before leaving. His briefing had been comprehensive and intelligent. Concentrated air strikes from B-52s and Navy Intruders, with overwhelming air cover, would decimate the Libyan military. Marines choppered into the drilling and processing sites would destroy the colonel’s petroleum industry for years to come. There was no doubt in Bud’s mind that the plan could accomplish what it set out to.

  “General, would you walk me out to the pad?”

  “Certainly,” Granger answered.

  The Blackhawk’s rotors were still. A light rain was falling, keeping the two men under the canopy at building’s edge.

  “I’m going back to the White House to get ready,” Bud said, pulling his overcoat collar up. “This weather is weird.”

  “Getting colder—in September, yet.” Granger put his cap on. “So, is it a go?”

  He couldn’t authorize a strike and he didn’t even know if he would recommend carrying it out. “Only the president can do that.”