Primary Target (1999)

by Joe - Dalton;Sullivan 01 Weber

  Lieutenant Colonel Skip Tornquist, the flight leader of the F-15s that had escorted Air Force One to Atlanta, taxied to a halt on the ramp at Dobbins ARB. He watched the E-3 AWACS land, then raised his canopy and glanced at the fire trucks racing toward the runway. Seconds later, as he egressed from the cockpit, Tomquist stopped and stared at a lumbering 747 as it emerged from the rain-swollen clouds. "Oh, my God," he said to himself as he recognized the famous Flying White House. Jesus, they're missing an engine.

  In obvious trouble, the airplane was flying in a strange, wing-down, nose-up attitude. What happened?

  When Tornquist reached the pavement, he and his fellow pilots stared in total shock as Air Force One staggered toward the runway. Tornquist clenched his fists. They aren't going to make it.

  Curt Bolton spotted the sprawling Lockheed Aircraft complex, then saw the array of fire trucks and emergency equipment awaiting them. "They've rolled out the welcome mat." "Let's hope we won't need it."

  "Air Force One," the relaxed controller said in a monotone, "continue your turn to ... right to one-one-zero. The runway'll be at your twelve o'clock, four and a half miles." "We have it in sight," Upshaw reported with a rush of excitement as he rechecked and identified the localizer frequency. The inbound course was set on 109 degrees and the glideslope and localizer were coming to life. They were intercepting the final course low and in close.

  "I'm keepin' you in tight," the controller stated in a confident voice. "You're cleared ILS Runway One-One."

  "Air Force One--cleared for the approach!"

  "Good luck."

  "Thanks!"

  The approach controller "handed" them off to the tower operator. In turn, the tower controller cleared the flight to land before he gave them the wind direction and speed, followed by the current altimeter setting.

  "We're getting slow," Upshaw prompted.

  "Okay," Bolton replied while he gently added power on the starboard inboard engine. "We're lookin' good."

  Like a sparrow hawk stalking its prey, Upshaw closely monitored the airspeed indicator and other instruments. Bolton now had the approach speed and ILS needles almost pegged.

  "Just a second," the colonel said, tight-lipped. "Stand by for the gear."

  "Okay."

  "Gear down," Bolton finally ordered while he fought to stay on the glidescope and localizer. "Keep it nailed."

  Nine long seconds passed and the nose gear still indicated unsafe.

  Wide-eyed with concern, Upshaw hesitantly glanced at Bolton. "We've got an unsafe nose gear."

  "That's the least of our problems."

  Upshaw shot a look at the airspeed. "We're bleeding off! Power--get some power on! Power!"

  Curt Bolton didn't reply as he inched the number-three throttle to the stop. The lumbering 747 yawed ever so slightly as the engine came up to speed and then howled at maximum power.

  "We're still slow," Upshaw announced, breathing faster than normal. "Gotta have more power--power!"

  Bolton eased the number-four throttle forward and felt the airplane yaw farther to the left. At this slow speed, he couldn't add enough right rudder and right bank to overcome the yaw to the left. He was behind the power curve and he was committed to land on this pass. He couldn't go around for another try. This was it; no second chance.

  "Gotta hold my lineup," Bolton admonished himself as the 747 began to sink slowly toward the ground. "Dammit! I should've held the gear until we had the runway made!" "Do you want to raise the gear--belly it in?"

  "No--it's too late," Bolton said through clenched teeth. "We'll hold what we've got--stay with it."

  "We're gonna be a little short!"

  "Just a tad," Bolton responded stiffly. As much as he tried, he couldn't block out the flashing warning lights on the annunciator panel.

  "Airspeed--airspeed!" Upshaw blurted. "We're losing it!" "Hang on!"

  "Raise the nose!"

  Low and slow with the wing flaps partially extended, Bolton was struggling to maintain runway alignment and salvage the landing. With more power thundering from the screaming right outboard engine, the 747 was beginning to respond to the excessive sink rate, but the nose was slowly yawing to the left.

  Passing between the Navy ramp and the Lockheed Aircraft facility, Bolton increased the angle of bank to the right in a final, desperate attempt to align the sluggish airplane with the runway before Air Force One smashed into the ground. The president sat in stunned silence. Although his mind was having trouble accepting what was happening, he sensed that things were going from bad to worse.

  Suddenly the disabled airplane slammed into the overrun just short of the runway threshold. The tremendous impact collapsed the main landing gear and ripped the right outboard engine from under the wing. Jet fuel spilled along the wreckage path, then ignited in a blinding flash. Leaving a long trail of reddish-orange flames and thick black smoke, the stricken Boeing skidded onto the runway and began a long slide on its crushed belly.

  Shocked by the incredible force of the crash landing, Macklin and the two Secret Service agents turned to identify the source of the dull orange glow in the cabin.

  An eerie ball of bright fire traveled the length of the aisle and mushroomed into a thick cloud of oily smoke near the tail of the 747. The president could hear crackling sounds, then noticed sparks from wires and cables. Macklin recoiled in horror when he realized that his clothing was saturated with jet fuel. Oh shit! We have to get out of here!

  "Fire!" someone shouted. "We're on fire!"

  "We've gotta get out!" an unidentified voice shouted in panic. "We're soaked with fuel!"

  "We're gonna die!"

  "Don't panic, goddammit!" the senior agent yelled. "We've got fire in the cabin!"

  "Where's the president?"

  Panic broke out as more passengers began screaming and yelling, some unfastening their seat belts to scramble toward the nearest door or emergency exit. A well-known reporter from Newsweek tripped and fell on his side, causing a group of journalists to go down like bowling pins.

  "Get out of the way!" the senior agent ordered passengers as he grabbed the president by the arm. "Move aside!" "We're on fire, for God's sake!" a woman cried out. "Move aside!"

  "Get us out of here!"

  ***

  Gripping their control columns, Bolton and Upshaw watched in horror and total exasperation as the careening airplane swerved off the left side of the 300-foot-wide runway. Engulfed in a blazing inferno of jet fuel, the out-of-control plane continued its sickening slide across the ground toward Base Operations and the control tower. Off to the side, fire trucks, ambulances and rescue equipment were accelerating to chase the heavily damaged jumbo jet.

  Macklin and the two agents were savagely thrown sideways across a row of seats when the flaming Boeing dug a wingtip into the ground and lurched to a jolting, crunching stop northeast of the helicopter pad at taxiway Juliet.

  All the passengers who were out of their seats or had been trying to open escape hatches were forcefully launched down the aisle and over the seats as chaos and panic spread. A mass of tumbling bodies smashed into other passengers, breaking bones and causing other painful injuries and bruises. Dense black smoke began pouring into the passenger cabin where the aircraft had been torn apart near the middle of the fuselage.

  The agents helped the disheveled president to his feet. "We're on fire!" one of the agents gasped as he shoved people out of the way. "Comin' through! Get out of the way!"

  "Get the doors open!" someone yelled.

  Trapped by the surge of people trying to get out of the burning plane, the agents forced their way through the frantic passengers. With the president securely in tow, they clawed their way toward the nearest exit. It was clear that no one except the two agents had any interest in being second to the chief executive when it came time to abandon ship.

  "Get out of the way!" the first agent said as he shoved a senior White House aide to the side. "You're blocking the aisle!"

  Rea
ching the exit, the agents tossed the president out of the plane. He landed heavily on his back and slowly sat up when the agents hit the ground beside him. Scraped and bruised to the bone, the commander in chief stumbled to his feet and tried to wipe the smudge off his face. He could hear the cacophony of sirens as fire trucks and rescue vehicles quickly responded to the unfolding disaster.

  Shaken by the crash landing, an ashen-faced Macklin followed his handlers to the nearest ambulance. While the medical personnel treated his cuts and abrasions, the president watched the firefighters struggle to extinguish the flames pouring out of Air Force One.

  When he saw the flight crew scramble from the cockpit, Macklin turned to the senior agent. "I want to talk to Colonel Bolton."

  Chapter 39

  The Marriott.

  With his nerves on edge, Khaliq Farkas had switched off all his aircraft radios a few minutes before he heard a remote rumbling sound north-northwest of him. On the one hand, it sounded like rolling thunder coming from many miles away. On the other hand, it sounded like a deep, somewhat muffled explosion, but he wasn't sure what the source was.

  He considered the odds that it might have been Air Force One impacting the ground, then dismissed the thought as wishful thinking. At least he'd managed to disrupt the arrival of the presidential jet. That was reward enough, knowing that he had sent the foolish president into harm's way. Perhaps next time the leader of the infidels wouldn't be so lucky. Farkas and Yahyavi moved to the window and cautiously looked around the immediate area surrounding the Airport Marriott. As far as they could see, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. No one was looking up at the building. Everything appeared to be quiet and normal.

  Yahyavi unhooked the folding antennas and closed the window shades, then quickly packed the equipment and turned the volume up on the radio scanners.

  Seconds later he and Farkas heard a frenzied police report over the public-service band; at least one airplane--possibly two--had crashed near Smyrna. Leaning closer to the scanner, the terrorists listened closely as the first accounts of the accident began pouring in.

  They promptly switched the television on and began flipping through the channels. A few scattered reports concerning the crash of an airplane were interrupted by fresh news flashes that indicated that more than one plane had been involved. There were interspersed reports that prior to the crash, Hartsfield/Atlanta International had experienced a major communications failure and that many flights had been diverted to other airports, including Dobbins Air Reserve Base.

  Farkas selected another channel and heard the familiar musical interlude that accompanied the bright red "Breaking News" logo.

  "This just in to CNN," the vivacious blonde reported. "We're receiving information that Air Force One has been involved in a collision and has crash-landed at Dobbins Air Force Base."

  Bug-eyed, Farkas and Yahyavi stared at each other, then turned back to the television screen.

  "Repeat, Air Force One has crash landed. We have unconfirmed reports that the president was aboard at the time the plane went down. CNN will bring you more details when we receive them."

  Farkas switched to another station in the metropolitan area. After a brief explanation of the breaking story by the anchorwoman, a grim-faced local reporter confirmed that an airplane had crashed on the outskirts of Smyrna, Georgia. A moment later the first live television pictures began coming in from the crash site.

  Farkas and Yahyavi concentrated on listening to the reporter.

  Holding an open umbrella in one hand and a microphone in the other, she was clearly astounded by the devastation surrounding her. Not prepared for the extent of the disaster, the commentator was relaying information as quickly as she was receiving it. Distracted by a low-flying media helicopter, the woman continually glanced at the helo while she answered questions from the news anchor at the Atlanta studio.

  A smile of immense satisfaction spread across Farkas's face. "We brought down Air Force One. We did it!"

  "Praise Allahu," Yahyavi said in a trembling voice as he repeatedly poked his thumb into the air. "Death to enemies of the revolution!"

  Before Farkas could respond, the police scanner suddenly broadcast a terrorist-threat alert. Transfixed, Farkas and Yahyavi listened to the warning of "potential terrorist activity" in and around the international airport. The woman repeated everything twice, then paused to receive an update.

  Every available law enforcement officer was descending on the Atlanta airport and the immediate area surrounding Hartsfield International. According to the dispatcher, the FAA flight controllers believed that the bogus radio instructions had come from somewhere near the airport.

  Farkas and Yahyavi stared at each other for a moment, then scrambled to gather their belongings and make a run for the rental car.

  "What about the equipment?" Yahyavi asked in a frightened voice.

  "Leave everything here," Farkas said curtly as he donned his captain's uniform. "Let's get moving."

  Abandoning the radio equipment at the Marriott, they drove their rental car straight to the Mercury Air Center building and made a mad dash for the Citation. Both men noted the lack of activity on the aircraft parking ramp. There was no sign of people and no airplane engines running. Surprised that the crowded parking ramp was deserted, Yahyavi quickly yanked the engine covers off the Citation while Farkas brought the jet to life. With the second engine coming up to speed, Yahyavi jumped through the door and locked it while Farkas called ground control for permission to taxi to the runway.

  "Negative, Citation Two-Two Tango Whiskey," the controller said bluntly. "The airport is closed at this time. Do not taxi or reposition your aircraft. I repeat, remain where you are."

  Farkas was about to respond to the controller when he and Yahyavi saw two police cars slide to a halt near the fixed-base operation. Farkas's survival instincts were honed to a razor-thin edge.

  With their weapons drawn, three officers jumped out of the patrol cars and cautiously approached the idling Citation. One of the men was carrying a high-powered rifle with a scope mounted on top.

  "What do we do?" Yahyavi insisted with an anxious expression. "You can't let this happen to us."

  "Shut up," Farkas snarled as he shoved the throttles forward and released the brakes. With animal keenness, he wheeled the jet around and raced for the taxiway parallel to runway 8L-26R. Three rounds penetrated the Citation's fuselage as Farkas lurched onto the taxiway and added full power to takeoff downwind.

  Once airborne, he sucked the landing gear up and raced northward under the dark clouds. With his transponder turned off, Farkas flew low to avoid radar detection. Fifteen minutes after the frantic escape, Farkas banked sharply to miss a tall tower. Startled by the close call, he zoom-climbed to 1,500 feet and kept a close watch for other traffic. He turned to glance at his accomplice.

  Ashen-faced, Yahyavi sat in the cabin and stared at the rays of light coining through the bullet holes.

  Farkas grinned as he scanned the hazy sky. If the dice continued to roll in his favor, the jet would soon be hidden in its camouflaged hangar in West Virginia.

  Chapter 40

  Near Islamorada, Florida.

  There's a good-sized one," Jackie announced as she I pointed to a large yacht straight ahead of the Maule. "It looks like the same kind of yacht."

  Scott lowered the nose and descended toward the gleaming ship. From the wake the yacht was leaving, it was making good speed.

  "Only one problem," Dalton said as they rapidly closed on the ship. "They don't have a helicopter onboard, and there isn't a name on the stern."

  Jackie raised the binoculars and closely studied the yacht. "It looks exactly the same, except for the blue canopy over the afterdeck."

  Scott leveled off at 200 feet. "And the inflatable boat where the helicopter had been on the other ship."

  "Let's do a three-sixty," Jackie suggested as she reached for the camera. "That's an exact replica of the other yacht." "Coincidence?"
<
br />   "Who knows?"

  Abeam the yacht, Scott initiated a climbing turn to circle the craft. Why are they steaming so fast?

  "No name on the stern," Jackie said mechanically as they banked over the ship. "And no name on either side of the upper deck. What does that tell you?"

  "Well, it might be on a delivery cruise to its owner." "Headed northward?" she asked as she snapped photos of the yacht.

  "It could be a West Coast boat," he advised as he allowed the Maule's nose to drop toward the water. "That's why they have that ditch that runs through Panama."

  Checking the number of exposures left in the camera, Jackie turned and glanced at the yacht. "Humor me and make a low, slow pass parallel to the stern."

  Scott nodded and rolled into a tight, descending turn. "If Ski Cat wasn't telling the truth, we could be chasing a phantom."

  Jackie gave him a questioning look. "Even if he was telling the truth, the captain could have taken it out in the Gulf." "Or," Scott suggested as the floatplane skimmed low over the water, "they could've headed toward Cuba or straight out to the Bahamas. Who knows?"

  After three quick photos, Jackie leaned back in her seat. "Scott, this just doesn't feel right. Too many coincidences." "Yeah, I know what you mean." Dalton pointed the Maule toward Key Largo. "If we don't see anything between here and the Ocean Reef Club, we'll contact Hartwell."

  A restlessness settled over Jackie as she scanned the horizon. "They have to be out here somewhere."

  "On second thought," Scott began slowly, "what we have here is a yacht full of terrorists who, oh-by-the-way, just happen to have a nuclear bomb onboard."

  "I believe you have the picture."

  He turned to her and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, it's time to get the Coast Guard and Navy involved in the search." For a few seconds she gazed at him, then reached for the satellite phone. "The sooner, the better," Jackie declared as she punched in Hartwell's number.

  After the Maule made the low pass and turned toward Key Largo, Massoud Ramazani slowly let out his breath and said a prayer to Allahu. Besides the wet paint running down the stern, the helicopter had barely been out of sight when the floatplane suddenly appeared. Still shaking from the close call, Ramazani turned to the inexperienced captain. "Put in at Plantation Key."