Cloudburst

by Pearson, Ryne Douglas

  Without waiting for an audible reply the caller went on, explaining the plan in just under a minute. “You’ve gotta deliver some kind of diversion and keep Mr. Big in the cockpit as long as possible. Something believable. Can you handle it?”

  The pilots were still trying to swallow the idea of what was going to happen. “Yeah. That’s a roger, but are you sure about this?”

  “Army says it’ll work, and I hear they get things right sometimes. Hey. They’re good. They’ll get you out of this.”

  Right. Okay, I guess I’ve got to believe this. The captain realized he’d forgotten something. “Air Force, if this works we’re going to need a hell of a long runway.”

  “Your brakes are gone, then. We monitored your engine and flap trouble. Hell of a job flying there, Four-Two-Two. Okay, we’ll get that figured out, and good luck on your takeoff. Weather informs me that you’ve got a twenty-five-knot surface wind coming straight down that runway you came in on if you go out the reciprocal.”

  That might not be enough, but it would definitely help. “Thanks again, Air Force.” Hendrickson hoped it would be enough. It was time for some curiosity satisfaction. “Air Force—what the hell is weighing us down?”

  Again, a pause preceded a terse reply. “Four-Two-Two, you don’t want to know.”

  * * *

  First they had started fueling on the left side, and then they switched to the right, necessitating moving the tankers and the pumper. Hadad wondered at first if they were not really workers, rather commandos in disguise. But, after all, this was friendly territory. The Cubans would simply want them to land and be on their way, and the closest American commando was across the Florida straits.

  Why, then, am I nervous? he asked himself, instantly realizing that he was exerting extra pressure on the small round button that kept him alive. Possibly because I am so close to victory. Yes. The two brother fighters he took his name from, Mohammed Boudia and Wadi Hadad, had tasted victory. And they, too, are in paradise. That thought calmed him.

  His seat on the right side of the lounge allowed him to watch the entire process: the scissor like lift on wheels lifting two blue-clad workmen up to the underside of the wing, where they attached the thick gray hose. The rumbling of the vehicles’ motors was distinct above the steady whine of the jet engines. Hadad wondered when they would be done.

  “Mohammed.” It was Abu. Wael was beside him, looking perplexed. Hadad knew why.

  “Go, Wael,” he said in his native tongue. “You watch the Americans.”

  The big terrorist looked at Abu, who still stared at their leader, then entered the cockpit. Hadad turned back to the window.

  “I can feel your words, Abu, so do not hold them in on my account.”

  The younger of the two ran his hand through the black waves atop his head, his eyes searching the floor for words before coming back up to his leader. Hadad had turned to face him. His eyes were sullen, and very, very tired.

  “We are in trouble, Mohammed?”

  Hadad shook his head. It leaned slightly right, giving him an angular perspective of his comrade. He looked up and down at him.

  “You are lying.”

  “And you are too soft.”

  “Soft!” Abu shouted, the word coming out in an Arabic shriek. “You leave the Americans alone at the controls, for how long now, so you can sit in here and...what?...pray for good fortune! And you say that I am soft?”

  Hadad did not match Abu’s furious tone. “And who did you leave to watch all those below?” The rhetorical inquiry broke Abu’s gaze, sending his eyes back to the floor, but leaving his teeth visibly clenched. “Abdul.”

  “He is—”

  “—is alone with hundreds of our prisoners right below your feet. When there should be no fewer than two of you watching them, you leave only one. And as for good fortune, my friend, my brother, it is assured. Would Allah not have blessed us with life to this point if He had not wanted us to succeed?”

  Abu breathed out his wrath. “Then we are in trouble.”

  “Allah has protected us.”

  “Against what? Why do you try to deceive me, and the others? We are not blind. The aircraft acts as if it is dying all around us.” Abu’s tone was a mix of cynicism and pleading. “Why are you pushing us so hard? Why are you pushing yourself? We are safe here. If there are problems with the aircraft we can stay and have repairs done before going on. The Cubans would not deny us that. What would a short delay—”

  “No delay!” Hadad responded in a burst of determination.

  “But—”

  “No!” He stood up and stepped closer to Abu, leaving their faces only inches apart. “We are on a mission, one charged by Allah, and we will not delay its conclusion. If you choose to be weak and soft, then I have erred in my judgment of you. I believed that you were a soldier of Allah, a true one, who would accept his fate willingly.” Hadad knew the last words had slipped out.

  Abu’s suspicions, which had grown in the last twelve hours, were confirmed. This was never meant to be a mission to humiliate and win concessions from the Americans. The reasons and intentions now became crystal clear. It was a personal mission they were on, not of their choosing, but of their leader’s. A grand drama of deception, indeed. One most effective on the integral parties.

  “And the weapons in the hold?” Abu remembered being assured by Hadad that they were just for the Americans’ benefit, and were totally harmless.

  “Gifts from Allah and our Arab brethren.”

  Insh Allah, Abu said to no one. “You are going to use them on the Americans...in their own land.”

  “We are,” Hadad corrected him. “At the very heart of their infidel government. It will be more than appropriate, and convenient for them. The mourning will already be in progress.”

  “I see.” It was all Abu could think to say. His wife and his child would be living without him. The solace was that, if his leader was right, he would soon be in paradise, awaiting a glorious reunion.

  That thought, however comforting, was short-lived. Abu had to admit that there were doubts now in his thoughts. Would he be with Allah, and the prophets of Islam? He wondered. He truly wondered.

  Hadad slid back and sat on the arm of the aisle seat, leaning on the back with his free arm. “Accept your fate, my friend. Go below and help Abdul. I will have Wael rest up here. He has been awake much of the journey, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Hadad smiled. It was meant to reassure his comrade. Abu turned his head first, his body following a split second later, and headed down below, his soul not yet at peace, but his mind having accepted his fate as a martyr.

  * * *

  Sandy was still sleeping, thank God. Michael could feel her chest rise and fall against his left arm, and occasionally her nose would rub against his neck as she nestled closer. The shouting from above had not awakened her as it had a few others. A man and woman across the aisle exchanged worried looks with Michael, and the terrorist forward of where they sat had nervously looked up sporadically during the verbal match. None of what was said—or yelled—had been heard with any clarity, but could displays of bellicosity mean anything good? Michael thought not.

  The muffled thud of hard shoes on the carpeted stairway started, then stopped. One of the hijackers had come down. That left two upstairs. Michael had found himself increasingly keeping track of where the terrorists were, and how many were anywhere at any one time. Their situation, he felt, was not getting any better, and the fight or whatever upstairs didn’t lend comfort in the least. Something was wrong, in spades, and he was determined that if they started shooting, he was going to know where the nearest gun was, and he was going to take it—or die trying. For Sandy’s sake.

  The thoughts that would have been more familiar in his military days abruptly faded. One of the terrorists, the one who had just come down, was walking aft. He was approaching Michael’s row.

  For whatever reason, their eyes met, and the visual exchange seemed to sl
ow time. The shared, silent exchange was brief, yet telling. Michael had seen something, more in the terrorist’s eyes than on his face. It was...what—futility? No. Resignation. That was it.

  Michael was scared. For both of them. He was doubly grateful that his wife was sleeping, and he consciously listened to the sound of the footsteps retreating aft. He figured, after they had stopped, that the man was past the middle bulkhead of the nearly silent aircraft.

  * * *

  The rhythmic thrumping of the piston-driven pumper stopped with a sputter. Hadad moved to the window quickly. They were done. The last of the tank trucks was pulling away and the scissor lift was coming down next to the pumper. He carefully shifted the thumb switch to his left hand and took the Uzi in his right. Its barrel tapped rapidly on the cockpit door, and Wael opened it inward without taking his eyes off the pilots.

  “Wael. Go rest.” Hadad added a head toss to the words.

  Silently the huge terrorist slid between the half-open door and its frame, which Hadad closed and locked.

  “They are done with refueling, correct?”

  “Just now,” Buzz answered.

  “Then we are leaving.” Hadad pressed the gun to the back of Buzz’s neck and leaned far forward, looking out the right-side window. The last two pieces of equipment were just clearing the area. “Get moving.”

  “No way,” Hendrickson responded to the order.

  With the barrel still embedded in the co-pilot, Hadad held the thumb switch out toward the captain. “You defied me before. This time your number two dies. Now move.”

  “Listen. We have no brakes. None. How do you expect us to get in position for a takeoff if we roll into the mud beside the runway trying? If you want this aircraft to get off the ground, then we’re going to need a tug to position us. Got it?”

  Hadad eased up the pressure of the Uzi. Buzz wanted to laugh, but just continued smiling and looking straight ahead. The cap was playing this guy hard.

  “Get it,” Hadad ordered, stepping back. He held his left hand and the switch out in front until reaching the jump seat. It was just a minor delay, he kept telling himself. Just a minor delay.

  Hangar 3C

  “Did you see him?” McAffee asked.

  “Twice. It was the same guy, I’m sure.” Sean handed the binoculars back. The vantage point was almost perfect through the six-inch opening between the hangar doors. “He was just looking out the cockpit window, and a minute ago he was looking out from one of the upper-deck windows.”

  They had never had a picture of the head terrorist, but it was a sure bet he was the one in the cockpit. Past experience had shown that these guys liked to be in control.

  “Captain, remember the face: He’s ours.”

  Control Tower, Jose Marti Airport

  Secretary Coventry was flanked by one aide and two gun-toting Cuban security troops, neither of whom seemed to be officers. It looked as though Castro wanted as little official contact with the United States as possible. All the better, the lanky Minnesotan thought, as he watched events unfolding from the blacked-out glass box a hundred feet above the ground.

  The setup was entirely modem, to his surprise. He was a pilot, schooled completely in small, private craft, and had visited many a tower in his adult life—and in his early life, he reminded himself. His father was a farmer, then and now, though at almost eighty years of age he had largely turned over the operation to his youngest son, the secretary’s little brother. In his prime, though, he had flown the crop duster personally out of the airport near the four hundred acres, often taking his children up with him.

  He had expected old analogue instruments and sweep lights on circular radar displays, but instead there were modem Japanese sets. They couldn’t have been more than two years old. The controllers spoke in hushed Spanish, more quietly the longer he had been among them.

  One of the operators looked up, speaking directly to the State Department interpreter. The balding Cuban American listened to the full message. “Mr. Secretary, the aircraft has just asked for a tug. Apparently they have no brakes.”

  “That’s no surprise.” Coventry held out his hand. The interpreter removed the handset from the portable unit slung on his shoulder and gave it to his boss.

  The White House

  The president answered the phone himself. “Yes.”

  “The aircraft is about to leave, sir.” Secretary Coventry sounded cool. Maybe it was easier being close to the action, the president surmised.

  He looked around at the other three. “Any last-minute concerns?” There weren’t. The situation had practically dictated the responses to it, a truism that the president was now well aware of, and determined to prevent from recurring. “Jim, I’m giving Delta the authorization to rescue the hostages as per the plan.”

  Not ten feet away Secretary of Defense Meyerson picked up a tan-colored phone on the president’s desk. It rang immediately in the NMCC.

  “Granger here.”

  “General Granger, inform Delta to execute CLOUDBURST.”

  There were no other words. Both the president and Meyerson hung up simultaneously.

  “Here we go,” the NSA said. “People are going to die.”

  “The right people, Bud.” Landau massaged the wooden arm of the chair. It was smooth and hard, and the grooves made by colonial workmen were impeccable still, after two centuries of wear. “That may seem wrong, I know. We’re raised to fear God, and to believe that every life is precious. Jesus, you know, we’ve got to believe that, even in this business when we’re talking about death...about causing death. It’s just that somewhere, for whatever reasons, some folks turn bad. They take a wrong turn. God knows some of them really believe they’re in the right, but they can’t preach their own divinity. My wife always says that a man can believe what he wants to believe, that he can convince himself of anything—anything!—but there is one force in the universe”—Landau’s wiry finger pointed upward—“that knows.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “We may be the great pretenders, but if so, then we’re the pretenders on the side of right. I can look inside my heart each night and see that. We all can.”

  Wisdom, fortunately, spoke eloquently when aged in human form. Landau told the others all that they needed to hear, for their silent doubts were surfacing at the moment of truth. He had known such moments before, and again he had shared of himself.

  “Bud,” the president started, then held his words for a long moment. He stood, digging his hands deep in his pockets. “I’ve thought about your idea, or proposal, whatever it is. It may be your thinking, but if I agree with it and decide to execute it then I am the final arbiter. You are an adviser.”

  “Mr. President?” Meyerson sensed that one military operation was all that was going to happen.

  The president faced his defense chief. “Stand down the strike, Drew.”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, without visible disappointment, and picked up the same phone as before.

  “Mr. President, are you going to approve the proactive plan?” Bud asked.

  “Tentatively, yes. But I want this to be legal, accepted by those in Congress who need to know, and covert as hell. About the only thing the Agency’s previous residents did that was even semi-intelligent was trying to keep their actions secret.” To most those words would be deceitful, almost sinister, but the practice of ‘need to know’ was meant to protect. In a Utopian society everyone could know about everything—maybe. But not in the twentieth century. Some deeds of leaders were best left to follow those in the know to their graves.

  “We’ll need a time line for Congress,” Landau noted. Only eight members of Congress would ever know about it, the absolute minimum allowed by law.

  “I’d like Bud and you to put that together. Drew, your office will work with Bud and the CIA to get the operational details down.” He looked at his national security adviser. “I want complete security on this, Bud. Your responsibility.”

  “Absolutely.”

>   The president went behind his desk and sat down. Except for the darkness through the window behind him he looked as though he had just sat down to start work. He dialed the office of his chief of staff. “Ellis. I just gave the go to Delta, so your work is going to pick up in an hour or so.” Gonzales was working with the presidential press secretary to ensure that the right word went out when the time came. “And, Ellis, I want you to call the Speaker and Majority Leader right away. Inform them of what’s going on, and set them up to be in my office at seven tomorrow evening. Yes, evening. There’s no time before the funeral, and the rest of the afternoon is shot. I don’t want to break any routine on scheduling this...clear? Good. Right, it’s quiet. And, one more thing. I want the attorney general in here in one hour. Quietly, also. Thanks.” He set the receiver down and looked at the wall clock. “How long, Drew?”

  “Fifteen or twenty minutes. We’ll know in a half an hour.”

  Many times before, presidents and their advisers had sat in that very room under similar circumstances. The Mayaguez incident. The Iran rescue mission. Son Tay. None had been completely successful, and one had been labeled a grand tragedy of failure. However, they would all pale in comparison to the success or failure of the present attempt to wrest American innocents from a willing and able foe. Success would bring jubilation and a major boost in the approval rating for the fledgling administration, an accepted measure of a chief executive’s ability to govern, like it or not. Failure, aside from the obvious loss of life, would shake the new government, and no one in the Oval Office had any illusions about the survivability of the new president if that should happen.

  Romeo Flight

  His ‘escorts’ were waiting exactly where the AWACS had told him they would be. He tracked them on radar, and they him, until their separation was minimal. Now their anti-collision lights outlined their frames, in unmistakable detail. Fulcrums.

  Cooper’s usual ride, the F-15C, would be more of a comfort right now. It was damn hard to shake the sense of helplessness he felt just floating along, ten thousand feet up, with MiGs on each wing. Some other Air Force plane had been graced with their presence. The radio told all.