Primary Target (1999)
Page 24
Protected by a coral breakwater and a moat, the estate was situated in the middle of an acre of plush tropical landscaping. Surrounded by emerald-and-turquoise waters, the isolated home and both guest cottages appeared to be in excellent condition.
Caught off guard by the distant sound of an airplane, Massoud Ramazani barked commands to the men loading supplies on Bon Vivant. One of the team' leaders quickly grabbed a tarp and covered two portable antiaircraft missiles lying in the bottom of a utility boat.
"Hurry," Ramazani exclaimed as he rushed across the crowded dock. "Get out of sight!"
Within seconds, everyone disappeared inside the yacht or ran for cover inside the home. Wearing white slacks and a double-breasted blue blazer, Ramazani casually strolled onto the main deck of the yacht and walked toward the bow. He glanced up and smiled as the yellow-and-white floatplane banked overhead. Where's the blue-eyed, blond-haired captain when I really need him? *
With a show of lazy indifference, Ramazani cast a slow glance at the Maule and waved in a cordial manner.
"Jackie," Scott said as he studied the man on the yacht. "Do you see anything unusual?"
Her eyes narrowed when she noticed the rows of unweathered wood at one end of the pier. "It looks as if they've recently extended the dock to accommodate the yacht." "Yeah, like in the last month or so." He gently rocked the wings in recognition of the friendly wave. "Take a look at the boxes stacked on the ship and the dock."
Jackie leaned around Scott for a better view. "It looks like they're preparing to get under way, but--"
"Where's the crew?" he inserted. "Would you mind taking some shots while I circle the place?"
"I'm already on it," Jackie said as she snapped photos of the yacht and the helicopter. "Try to keep the wingtip slightly above the horizon."
"Okay," Scott said as he eased into a shallow turn. "That's an odd color for a helicopter."
She focused her attention on the helo and took more pictures. "It looks like desert camouflage that's been painted over."
"Yeah, with brown stripes that don't match where they join at the tail."
"That's odd."
Scott concentrated on the small flag displayed on the side of the helicopter. That looks familiar.
Jackie scanned the water and sky, but her peripheral vision caught a reflection and movement off to her side.
"We have traffic," Jackie exclaimed as she instinctively reached for the controls. "Level at one-o'clock--watch it?' Glancing at the oncoming floatplane, Scott racked the Maule into a tight, knife-edge turn as the red Cessna 206 ripped past only feet away.
"Holy shit," Dalton gasped as he rolled wings level. "Did you see a landing light?"
"No, nothing," Jackie said breathlessly as she keyed the radio. "Cessna Two-Oh-Six near Marathon," she said with cold rage, "do you copy Maule Seven-Three Bravo?"
A long silence answered her question.
Scott took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "I'd like to have a chat with that guy, if he lives long enough." "Maybe we'll run into him later," Jackie said with clenched teeth. "No pun intended."
Scott nodded grimly as he turned the plane back toward the secluded home. "We'll look for him along the way." Wide-eyed with anger, Jackie slowly shook her head. "We're lit up like a Christmas tree, and he didn't even see us. f, "Asleep at the wheel," Scott said as he began another circle around the island home.
"I wouldn't doubt it."
Dalton set up for a low pass along the starboard side of the yacht. "Bon Vivant. I want to check the name and see where the ship is registered."
"I'll work on it," Jackie said as she reached for her new satellite-phone. "I don't know what it is, but something seems amiss."
"I have the same feeling," Scott said as he pulled up to make one more circle around the plush estate. "We'll press on to Key West, see what we find, then head back this way." After a second's hesitation, she glanced at him. "We'll have to wait until the photo shops open."
"Not this morning," he said with a fleeting smile. "I have a friend who'll process our film and deliver eight-by-tens in less than an hour."
"You know," Jackie said as she studied the yacht and the helicopter. "You amaze me at times."
"Well"--he laughed aloud--"that's a start."
After investigating the area around Bahia Honda State Park, Scott pointed his finger toward the northern shores of the lower Keys. "That entire area is a refuge for the great white heron."
"It's beautiful," Jackie remarked as she folded the sectional chart into a smaller rectangle. "There's an unmarked balloon cable off to the right."
"I see it."
"The cable goes up to fourteen thousand feet," she warned. "Castrovision," Scott said as he flew toward Pine Island. "We'll check out these smaller Keys, then cross the highway and fly around the south side of Key West." He banked to the right to pass north of the treacherous aerostat location. Skirting the balloon cable, they looked for anything that might resemble a remote base for terrorist operations.
Jackie reached for the sat-phone when it rang, then signed off after a brief conversation.
"The yacht is registered in Liberia, of all places," she announced, and watched him give her a questioning look.
His reaction was tempered with doubt. "I have a strange feeling, but I don't want to set off any alarms yet."
"Let's head for Key West," she said decisively, and glanced at the fine mist of aviation gasoline venting over the right wing. "We need to get some fuel and head back to that island."
Scott glanced at the gauges. "Yeah, there aren't too many places to get fuel out here. If you'll take it for a minute, I'll call Cindy. She'll take our film to her shop while we get some fuel and grab a quick bite of breakfast."
Jackie gave him a sly smile as she took the controls. "That's what I'd call concierge service."
"Hey, she's a special friend."
"I can only imagine."
Passing close to the private airport on Sugarloaf Key, Scott took control of the Maule and contacted Naval Air Station Key West for VFR traffic advisories. With no reported traffic, he made contact with the tower at Key West International while he circumnavigated the southwestern end of the Key and returned to land at the international airport.
"You want to make the landing?" Scott asked as he lowered the landing gear out of the floats.
"Sure, talk me through it."
"Slow to eighty, and ease the power back to 1,700 rpm." Jackie made a smooth transition as Dalton calmly coached her.
"Flaps to twenty-four," Scott said as he looked in vain for the red floatplane they had encountered near Marathon. "I guess the Cessna driver must have gone on to the Dry Tortugas."
"Just as well," Jackie said as she concentrated on flying the approach. "We have enough on our plate."
"Flaps to forty," Scott said as he scanned the area for other air traffic. "Slow to seventy-five."
"I'm a little high and fast."
"You're doing just fine," Scott advised as they reached a point approximately ten feet above the runway. "Start an easy flare."
"I'm not sure about this," Jackie protested.
"Ease the power back, ease the power, bring it to idle, and hold the attitude you have. Lookin' good, stay with it." "I'm trying."
The wheels touched down with a surprising softness. "I have it," Scott said with a wide smile. "Great job." "Thanks."
Dalton changed the subject when he saw a petite, blond-haired young woman waving at them.
"That's Cindy Simmons," Scott said as he returned the greeting. "She's a real conch."
"A what?"
"She's a local--a native," he explained. "Born and raised here."
Looking at the attractive, softly feminine woman, Jackie suddenly felt embarrassed about her own appearance. "I hope we're not going anywhere fancy for breakfast."
"Fancy?" Scott asked, managing to keep a straight face. "I was thinking about Marriott's Casa Marina Resort, if you think we're not too overdressed."
"You
wouldn't dare."
Chapter 32
Hartsfield International Airport.
After Khaliq Farkas ordered breakfast from the room . Rvice menu, he glanced out his twelfth-floor window at the dense fog and then dialed a telephone number in Washington, D. C. Identifying himself as a current member of the Warehouse Discount Club, Farkas scribbled a few notes while his contact with the carefully modulated voice gave him an update on the flight schedule for Air Force One.
The sequence of confidential information, including the estimated time of arrival in Atlanta, was delivered to Farkas in the form of a brief sales pitch for outdoor furniture and garden tools. The lavishly appointed blue, white, and silver jumbo jet was due to land precisely on schedule.
When his room-service order arrived, Farkas quickly polished off the poached eggs and orange juice, then called Hamed Yahyavi. Over coffee and dry toast, they studied the latest weather forecast for the Atlanta area. Although the atmospheric conditions were creating dense fog, which was perfect for their plan, they fervently hoped it wouldn't cause a problem for the arrival of Air Force One.
Next, they opened the two custom-crafted plywood-andsteel containers. The trunks housed twelve Bendix/King VHF aircraft radios, six military UHF radios, and three fully charged aircraft batteries. The radios were capable of receiving or transmitting on any military or civilian/general aviation frequencies.
Farkas would be able to listen to transmissions from any aircraft approaching or departing the Atlanta area. He could simply change the frequencies to listen to the Atlanta control tower, clearance delivery, ground control, approach control, departure control, and the Atlanta air-route traffic controllers, including the en route, feeder, and final controllers.
The radio package allowed them to transmit to the pilots on any of the frequencies, or block transmissions on any frequency by pressing and holding the transmit button. Yahyavi had built the special containers to enable them to close the prongs on the side of the boxes to press and hold the transmit buttons, thus freeing them to operate unused radios while the other transceivers disrupted important radio calls between pilots and controllers.
With eighteen radios tuned to a variety of extremely critical frequencies, they could transmit bogus orders to many flights while they blocked all communications on the other sensitive channels. The situation would not be disastrous in clear weather during the daytime because the pilots could visually confirm other conflicting traffic and take corrective measures to avoid midair collisions.
However, in inclement weather, when the flight crews are flying in instrument conditions, they can't see each other. Vectoring a number of converging aircraft toward one another, and assigning them to the same altitude in a reasonably confined area, would be chaotic and most probably catastrophic. The chances of a midair collision would be extremely high.
Placing a particular airplane--Air Force One--in a precarious position would be the easy part. Like a crapshoot, the outcome would be impossible to predict because the circumstances are beyond one's total control. But the chances of Air Force One swapping paint with another airplane were frighteningly high.
In addition to the radios, Yahyavi had purchased folding antennas that would increase the range of the radios. From their vantage point overlooking the airport boundary, they would be able to disrupt the majority of normal aviation communications and create havoc with the flow of air traffic into Atlanta/Hartsfield International.
They also had two portable radio scanners that allowed them to listen to the various aviation frequencies while they monitored policeand fire-department communications on the public service band.
"Here's an update," Yahyavi said when a revised local weather forecast came on the television.
The conditions were so bad that Delta Air Lines was reporting one-hour delays and twenty-nine of their arriving flights had been diverted to other destinations.
"Almost perfect conditions," Yahyavi said excitedly. "Who could ask for more?"
"No one," Farkas replied as a tiny grin creased his face. Yahyavi stared into the dark eyes of his accomplice. "Death to the enemies of the revolution! Death to Macklin!" "With Allahu's blessing," Farkas said bitterly, "the president of the United States will not see another sunrise."
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland Among many other important missions, the Air Mobility Command's elite 89th Airlift Wing is responsible for the operations of the special aircraft used by the president, vice-president, cabinet members, members of Congress, high-ranking dignitaries, and senior members of the U. S. military. The dedicated men and women of the 89th pride themselves on providing the safest and very highest-quality service. Before leaving his office at Andrews Air Force Base, the 89th Operations Group commander finished his morning coffee, then stepped in front of his full-length mirror. Colonel Curtis Wayne Bolton checked his shiny black shoes, adjusted his tie, and straightened his immaculate blue tunic. Along with the silver command-pilot wings, the colorful rows of decorations were perfectly aligned and centered on his left breast.
The tall, silver-haired officer donned his hat with the scrambled-egg insignia sprawled across the visor, then closed his chart case. It was time for the presidential pilot to board Air Force One.
The flight to Atlanta's Hartsfield International Airport had been coordinated with the applicable air-traffic-control agencies, including the Andrews control tower, Washington departure control, en route air-traffic-control centers, and the appropriate Air Force command posts. Every detail of the flight had been doubleand sometimes triple-checked. Approaching the Boeing 747-200B, designated a military VC-25, Bolton returned the crisp salute of Chief Master Sergeant Willard T. Brewer. The good-natured sergeant, whose ancestors included slaves and sharecroppers from the Mississippi Delta, always greeted his pilot with a wide smile. Being associated with transporting the president to the Cornerstone Summit made Brewer's smile seem even wider than usual.
Like the rest of the crew of Air Force One, Sergeant Brewer had been individually screened and selected by Colonel Bolton. The well-organized, highly professional team represented the best of the best in the United States Air Force.
Entering the spotless state-of-the-art cockpit, Bolton was greeted by his copilot, Lieutenant Colonel Kirk Upshaw. The young, clean-cut Air Force Academy graduate was a highly motivated officer with a bright future. Upshaw's career aspirations were greatly enhanced by the fact that his father had been an Air Force combat fighter pilot who rose to be chief of staff at Supreme Headquarters, Allied Powers Europe.
"Everything ready to go?" Bolton asked Upshaw while he glanced at the navigation charts and instrument approach plates.
"All set. We have our clearance and we're ready to start engines."
"Good." Bolton gave the flight deck a cursory inspection. "I'm going to take a walk-through--see how we're doing." Upshaw nodded as he adjusted his seat.
Leaving the quiet surroundings of the cockpit, Bolton chatted with various security personnel, Secret Service agents, and members of the news media while he made his way through the giant airplane. Along the way, he took time out to visit with a group of influential black leaders and a key senator from Georgia.
The amicable politician never tired of having the opportunity to arrive in his home state aboard the royal chariot known as Air Force One. He knew the value of an appearance in the company of the president of the United States, especially to his constituents and the media. The wily and charming senator thoroughly enjoyed regaling his public with stories about the times he had coached presidents while he'd been onboard the flying White House.
Continuing his tour of the airplane, Bolton inspected the 4,000 square feet of living/working space, including the two galleys, the medical suite, the six passenger lavatories, and the mission communications center. Packed with an army of cryptographic equipment, radios, and computers, the sophisticated comm center provided worldwide secure data and voice communications. The presidential 747 also had triple redundancy in cockpit commu
nications, including UHF and VHF radios.
Paying special attention to detail and cleanliness, the command pilot checked on the plush executive suite that provided the president and his family with a private office, dressing room, bathroom, stateroom, and conference/dining area. The personal attention to detail aboard Air Force One would rival the most prestigious hotels.
Separate accommodations were provided for aides, guests, Secret Service agents, security specialists, and representatives of the news media. The flight crew had their own lounge and minigalley.
Designed to carry seventy passengers and twenty-three crew members, the long-range 747 was equipped with nineteen television monitors, eleven VCRs, a thermonuclear shield, and eighty-five telephones. Every inch of the 238 miles of onboard wiring has been specially shielded to protect it from electromagnetic pulses that would emanate from a thermonuclear blast. The shielding also protects the wiring from more common electromagnetic interference.
Cruising at 560 mph at an altitude of 35,000 feet, the big jet could fly over 9,000 statute miles without refueling. Using the in-flight refueling capability, the presidential platform could safely remain airborne for two weeks or longer if necessary.
Bolton was pleased to see that every task and request had been taken care of, including the specially prepared breakfast for the president. Fresh newspapers and magazines, excluding the publications banned by the first lady, were onboard the jumbo jet. In addition, a navigation chart with the plane's course was on the president's desk.
Even though the exterior of the airplane had been carefully preflighted, Bolton walked back down the boarding stairs to make a final inspection. After exchanging greetings with the Air Force guards and the Secret Service agents, he strolled around the outside of the flying White House.
He never failed to look at the words "United States of America" emblazoned along the fuselage of the spotless 747. With sunlight sparkling from the highly polished silver, white, and blue surface, the graphic symbol of freedom and democracy filled him with pride.
His practiced eye continued to survey the huge airplane from nose to tail and wingtip to wingtip, including the self-contained baggage loader. Bolton didn't detect any damage or blemishes, and, most important, all the essential components were securely attached to the airframe. Air Force One was ready to take to the skies.