Primary Target (1999)

by Joe - Dalton;Sullivan 01 Weber

  Although the commander in chief mentioned damage to the carrier George Washington, he didn't disclose the fact that it was currently dead in the water. The president went on to explain that some "assets" were lost in the strike, but he didn't reveal how many U. S. warplanes were now lying on the bottom of the Persian Gulf.

  Ramazani watched the tight-jawed president make every attempt to be upbeat about the results of the surprise attack. When it became painfully obvious that Macklin was spinning himself into a corner, an off-camera media consultant gave the commander in chief a "pull the rip cord" signal. With the precision of a neurosurgeon, the president brought the "live event" to a smooth conclusion and the bright lights clicked off.

  Harboring mixed feelings, Ramazani rose from the sofa and walked out to the island home's spacious dock. He was pleased that the Iranian military had acquitted themselves and humbled the Americans, but the attack on his homeland was stirring a great deal of rage in his gut. He sat down in a lounge chair and allowed his thoughts to run their course while he relaxed under the stars and balmy breezes. Macklin is a walking dead man.

  Moscow President Nikolai Shumenko and Yegor Pavlinsky talked quietly over breakfast on Shumenko's patio. They discussed the warm weather and the protest marches in Red Square while they occasionally glanced at the four heavily armed men guarding the grounds.

  The president caught Pavlinsky's eye. "I'm afraid your plan may have grave consequences for us."

  Pavlinsky gave him a barely perceptible shrug. "What consequences?"

  "You know what I'm talking about."

  "We have nothing to lose," Pavlinsky said defiantly, "and the Americans have a carrier out of action for at least six to nine months."

  "My friend," Shumenko said under his breath, "I fear we have, as Admiral Yamamoto once said, awakened a sleeping giant."

  "We have to survive this crisis," Pavlinsky declared with a solemn expression. "The Americans are becoming overextended and their situation will get worse."

  "That's what concerns me."

  Pavlinsky glanced at one of the guards and turned to Shumenko. "It won't be long before we'll be filling the void in the Gulf region. It's working in our favor, but we have to be patient. Trust me."

  They locked stares before Shumenko broke the silence. "If you trap your enemy in a corner--"

  "Yes, yes," Pavlinsky interrupted. "If the enemy has no escape, they will fight to the death. That's not what we're doing."

  Shumenko looked down and slowly shook his head. "It would be foolish to underestimate Macklin."

  "I know," Pavlinsky said stiffly. "He was a fighter pilot, but now he's a president who has to be more reserved." "This bit of wisdom"--Shumenko sighed heavily--"from a man who never served in the military."

  Chapter 28

  Near the Permak Express.

  Using Greg O'Donnell's night-vision goggles, Scott caught sight of the container ship a few miles in front of them. "I've got 'em," Dalton announced triumphantly.

  "Where?" Jackie asked, noting the first signs of daylight in the eastern sky. "I don't see it."

  "Eleven-thirty, about three miles," he said as he initiated a shallow climb and keyed the radio. "Easy Rider, Charlie Actual has you in sight. Do you have accommodations and winds?"

  "Light and variable with a cork to port."

  "We're looking forward to seeing you."

  "Easy Rider, aye."

  Scott angled toward the ship as he made preparations to ditch the damaged Caravan. The fuselage tank was empty and fuel had stopped dripping from the wings ten minutes after the gauges read empty.

  "Jackie," Scott said as he eased the turboprop up to 400 feet, "how about jettisoning the cargo door and handling the life raft?"

  "I'm way ahead of you," she said, then glanced at Maritza and Greg. "They're well braced, so I'll toss the door out and stay with them."

  "Good," he said as he spotted a motor launch fifty yards to the left side of the ship. "I'm going to put it down just short of--"

  Without any warning, the engine quit and began spooling down.

  Scott immediately turned toward the ship and said a silent prayer of thanks. Thank you, God. I'll take it from here. Jackie scrambled to the aft section of the cabin, then heaved the cargo door out and strapped in next to Greg and Maritza.

  "At least we made it to the ship," Jackie said as she braced for the impact. "I'm feeling lucky."

  "Yeah," Greg said in a pained voice. "We'll be okay." Scott lowered the flaps and adjusted the bank angle so he wouldn't be headed straight for the motor launch. Two extremely bright spotlights suddenly illuminated the preferred landing area, but Scott couldn't stretch the glide that far. "Easy Rider," Scott radioed as he ripped off the night vision aid. "I've lost the engine. I'll be dropping in short of your lights."

  "Short?"

  "I need the lights about three hundred yards out?" Scott exclaimed. "I've lost the engine."

  "Will do," a different voice said as the lights panned farther out from the ship. "How's that?"

  "Outstanding," Scott said as he smoothly flared the airplane and flipped on the landing light. "You can get the launch under way."

  "They're headed your way."

  "Great."

  Because of the Caravan's fixed landing gear, Dalton had to slow the airplane as much as possible before he plopped the Cessna into the water. If the nose wheel dug in at high speed, it could force the airplane up on its nose and over on its back. Altitude and airspeed control would be critical during the final seconds of flight.

  "Here we go," Scott shouted as he held the turboprop a few feet above the water and allowed it to bleed off speed in ground effect. He gingerly worked the trim, nursing the airplane along until it was almost fully stalled. Relying on his seat-of-the-pants instincts, he eased the yoke back when the Caravan stalled with the wheels ten inches above the water.

  The big turboprop mushed into the Mediterranean as a huge spray of water engulfed the entire airplane. It rocked up on its nose, then gently settled back as Jackie tossed the life raft out. She pulled the exposed lanyard to eject the raft from its case and fully inflate it.

  Scott unstrapped and hurried to the aft cabin to help Jackie get Maritza and Greg into the life raft. The airplane was rapidly filling with water, which made the task more difficult and time consuming. Moments after Scott and Jackie assisted Maritza into the raft, the motor launch arrived. A trained rescue swimmer leaped into the water to help with Greg. Less than three minutes later the motor launch was headed for the ship. Shivering in the bow of the boat, Scott felt Jackie's fingers dig into his arm as the Caravan's tail rose straight up and then disappeared beneath the sea.

  He cupped her hand and shrugged. "As soon as we're aboard, we'll contact Hartwell."

  Jackie nodded, then took a deep breath and exhaled. "If Maritza is up to it, she can give him the brief."

  "Good idea."

  "We did it," she said triumphantly, and put her arms around his waist. "I have a bottle of fifty-year-old scotch stashed in my stateroom. Care to join me for a small celebration."

  Scott smiled warmly. "That's the best invitation I've ever had."

  "My instincts," she whispered in his ear, "tell me that that's not true."

  The Oval Office Deeply disturbed by the debacle in the Gulf, President Macklin impatiently glanced at his wristwatch while his national security adviser finished his conversation on the "secure" line. Hartwell Prost quickly wrapped up his business and joined the president and two Secret Service agents. With the agents in close proximity, Macklin and Prost began walking toward the executive mansion.

  "I just got the word," Prost said, falling in step with Macklin. "Dalton and company managed to extract Ms. Gunz. Elman "Outstanding," the president exclaimed. "At last, thank God, something went as planned this evening."

  "Well, not exactly."

  "What do you mean?" the president asked, mindful of the risks involved in the dangerous rescue attempt.

  "They apparen
tly flew into an ambush, like our people in the Gulf."

  Macklin bristled, but made no comment.

  "Dalton and Sullivan are okay," Prost continued in a business-as-usual voice, "but Scott's pilot was seriously injured, and Ms. Gunzelman broke her ankle."

  The president reached inside his jacket and extracted a cigar. "What's the extent of the pilot's injuries?"

  "Gunshot wounds to his leg and shoulder," Prost explained, then added, "He flew cover when Dalton was shot down during the Gulf War."

  "Get both of them to Bethesda," Macklin said as he lighted his cigar, "and make damn sure they have the best of everything, including rehab--whatever it takes."

  "Yes, sir."

  In silence, the four men continued their journey to the second story residential quarters. Once they reached the presidential living area, Macklin and Prost settled into comfortable lounge chairs on the softly lighted Truman balcony. The president eyed his cigar while the agents fanned out to opposite sides of the railed platform.

  Externally calm, Macklin stared across the wide expanse of the South Lawn. "Well, give it to me straight."

  Prost paused thoughtfully. "First, I have some other disturbing news."

  "The bad news before the bad news."

  "I'm afraid so. One of our carrier helos fished the remains of a Russian pilot out of the Gulf. He's been identified as Major Viktor Kasatkin, a Russian fighter pilot who was apparently instructing the Iranians in advanced fighter tactics." With the smallest of smiles, the president shook his head. "Well, it's time to play hardball with Moscow, and set a date for a summit. I'll take it up with Shannon. Now, tell me about Ms. Gunzelman."

  "She has given us a lot of information," he said without expression. "Besides Bassam Shakhar and Khaliq Farkas, a man named Massoud Ramazani has been activated to assist in carrying out the threats issued by Shakhar."

  The president narrowed his gaze in sharp question. "What do we know about Ramazani?"

  "According to Ms. Gunzelman, he's intelligent," Prost explained matter-of-factly. "He's shrewd, and, until recently, he was a professor at the University of Miami."

  "What?" Macklin exclaimed in outrage. "You're telling me that we had a terrorist teaching in one of our universities?"

  Prost nodded.

  "Terrific," the president said in disgust.

  Macklin eyed his friend with a mildly disapproving look. "Are they working in unison, or leading separate groups?" "We aren't sure, but Ms. Gunzelman thinks it's a team effort. According to the word inside the compound, Ramazani and Farkas have co-responsibility for paralyzing our commercial air transportation system."

  The president quietly nodded.

  "If her information is reliable," Hartwell went on, "Ramazani and Farkas have established a base of operations somewhere in the Florida Keys, but she doesn't know the exact location."

  "Amazing," Macklin said with a throaty laugh. "We have various intelligence agencies, informants, and listening posts around the world. We have the CIA's Global Response Center and Counter Terrorism Center, NSA, and the FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force, and not one of them was aware that Farkas was flying an A-4 attack aircraft over U. S. soil--and that we had a terrorist teaching at an American university." The president suddenly stopped, fixing Prost in his gaze. "I apologize if I'm offending you, but surely you see the irony in this?"

  Prost remained unflappable. "Your point is well taken." "We have all this vast network in place," Macklin said with a theatrical wave of his arms, "and no one in the loop knows shit."

  With his anger seething just below the surface, the president continued. "On the other hand, working independent of the government, we have a smart, gutsy young woman who managed to work her way straight to the heart of a major terrorist organization."

  Macklin pointed a finger at Prost. "Now that, my friend, is espionage personified. No question about it. We need to get her on the payroll."

  "Mr. President," Prost said without any sign of resentment, "I strongly recommend that we tighten air travel security, and do it now."

  "I agree," Macklin said, pondering the DFW crash. "What do you recommend?"

  "We need to go to Level Four and immediately prohibit curbside check-in," Hartwell stated emphatically. "In addition, we need to use every intel capability we have--military and civilian--to provide aerial recon over and around our major and regional airports."

  The president remained quiet for a long moment, then gazed across the South Lawn. "I'll give the order tonight." "The sooner, the better," Prost said firmly. "These people know our weaknesses, and they aren't like Saddam Hussein's ragtag crew. They're sneakier, nastier, better organized, better financed, and they have a suicidal resolve to complete their missions."

  "I share your sense of urgency," the president said, then sighed heavily. "What else did Ms. Gunzelman have to say?" Clearly uncomfortable, Prost avoided the president's unnerving gaze. "Russian advisers--chemical and biological experts--have been working with Shakhar's terrorist groups."

  Macklin's anger showed in his eyes. "Another reason to turn the screws on Moscow and Tehran."

  "I couldn't agree more."

  "What else from Ms. Gunzelman?"

  Prost frowned and took a deep breath, then let it out. "To her knowledge, Farkas and Ramazani have personally been charged with the responsibility of assassinating you, or facing death themselves." He paused, letting the full weight of his words resonate.

  "Well, that sure tops off a swell day," Macklin said sarcastically.

  Prost spoke in a flat, emotionless voice. "Ramazani and Farkas have solid reputations for achieving their goals. We can't discount them."

  The president's imagination was stimulated. "Give me the whole story, and don't filter anything."

  "We have to assume that Farkas and Ramazani are indeed spearheading a highly concerted effort to kill you," Prost said in a steady voice. "We've already seen what Farkas is capable of doing, and Ramazani is considered to be even more bold and clever. Working alone, they are very good at what they do. Working as a team, they have the potential to accomplish anything that Shakhar wants them to accomplish." Macklin calmly blew a smoke ring into the warm night air. "What do you recommend?"

  "The same thing I recommended before."

  "I'm not leaving the White House," the president announced defiantly.

  "That's fine," Prost fired back. "However, if something happens to you, I'm not going to look in the mirror for the rest of my life and know that I was derelict in my duties." "Consider your duty fully discharged," Macklin said, painfully conscious that Prost was right.

  Restless, Hartwell spoke in a subdued voice. "One last thing," he said slowly, and paused. "Shakhar has reportedly sent a Hiroshima-strength nuclear bomb to the U. S."

  Macklin's expression took on a stunned look. "Well, you certainly saved the best for last."

  Prost remained unperturbed.

  A sudden moodiness settled over the president. "He obviously got it from the Russians, so the real question is where did he send it and what does he plan to do with it?" "According to Ms. Gunzelman, it's onboard a large motoryacht at their base of operations in the Florida Keys. Unfortunately, she doesn't know anything about the yacht, except she believes it's over one hundred feet long." "What's their plan?"

  "She thinks they're going to take the yacht up the Potomac to Washington and blow D. C. flatter than a Kansas wheat field."

  "The hell they will," the president said harshly, then softened his tone. "I want this to be your number-one priority. Use whatever resources you need, but get to digging on this."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Find that yacht!"

  "With your permission," Prost went on, "I want to keep this under wraps. I don't want people running in circles and alerting the media."

  Macklin's brow furrowed. "You have a point there." "Before we get anyone else involved," Prost suggested, "I'd like to ask Dalton and Sullivan to see what they can come up with. I want them to comb every inch of
the Keys from the tip of the mainland to Key West."

  "Do what you need to do," Macklin said dryly. "I want results, and I want them now. They have seventy-two hours--not one hour longer--to produce something of significance, or we'll do it a different way."

  "Understood."

  "One other thing," the president said stiffly. "Let Sullivan and Dalton know about the nuclear bomb--the possibility that a nuke may be on the yacht."

  "Yes, sir," Hartwell said, then cast a look at the Secret Service agents. "Mr. President," he said with a sudden change of heart, "may I have a private word with you on another subject?"

  Macklin looked perplexed. "Hartwell, you know you can be candid with me. What is it?"

  "Sir," Prost said with a deep sigh, "what I have to say to you must be in private. I trust you understand."

  Hovering in the background, one of the agents spoke before Macklin could respond. "Mr. President, we'll be inside if you need us."

  "I appreciate it," Macklin said, a keenness in his look. He waited until the men were out of hearing distance. "Should I have a stiff drink first?"

  "It wouldn't hurt," Prost began with sadness in his voice. "I had planned to sleep on this before I discussed it with you, but I've come to the conclusion that it can't wait."

  A sudden tautness claimed the president's expression. "Lay your cards on the table," he said with a wary voice. Prost hung his head, then looked up. "According to Ms. Gunzelman, we do have a leak in the White House." Taken aback, the president's face hardened into a dark frown. "That's a very serious charge."

  A long silence followed, which neither one wanted to fill. Macklin took a long pull on his cigar and walked to the railing. "You better come clean with me. Who is it?"

  "She doesn't know. She's heard Shakhar refer to his 'contact' in the White House, but she doesn't know who it is." Deeply troubled by the disturbing news, the president turned and faced his close confidant. "What do your instincts tell you?"

  Eyeing each other in the soft glow, both men felt the strain of silence.

  "Sir, I have to be honest."