Primary Target (1999)
Page 30
The Revolutionary Guardsman made a small course correction. "Do you want me to contact the helicopter pilot?" "No!" Ramazani blurted with pent-up anger. You fool! "He's not coming back to the ship!"
The neophyte skipper hunkered down and paid strict attention to his boat handling. He and his apprentice first mate were still smarting from scraping the hull when they hurriedly cast off from the dock.
After gathering the crew on the bridge, Ramazani laid out his plan. "As soon as we get into port, we'll paint another name on the stern, and we'll paint the deck blue. We'll make all the cosmetic changes we can to the ship this afternoon, and get under way as soon as the sun goes down."
One by one the Maule flew over dozens of yachts and fishing boats, none of which compared with the motoryacht Scott and Jackie were searching for. As they approached the Ocean Reef Club, it was obvious that the terrorists had won the first round.
Hartwell had made arrangements to have a Bell Long-Ranger delivered to them at the Fort Lauderdale--Hollywood International Airport. In addition to Jackie and Scott's efforts, the search for the yacht now included the combined assets of the military and Coast Guard.
Uncomfortable with the fine spray of aviation fuel venting over the wing, Jackie leaned back in her seat. "Let's get this thing on the ground and have a professional photographer look at our negatives."
"No argument from me," he stated emphatically. "I'm just wondering if they went out far enough to be over the horizon."
"That's a possibility."
Near Huntington, West Virginia Khaliq Farkas brought the Citation I/SP to a smooth halt on the grass runway and taxied to the hangar. As the engines quietly spooled down, two men hooked the small utility tractor to the jet and quickly pushed it backward into the hangar. When Farkas and Hamed Yahyavi stepped out of the Citation, Yahyavi went straight to the rest room while Farkas issued the order to paint the corporate jet a different color and change the side number. Afterward he paused to inspect the A-4 Skyhawk. Sporting two Sidewinder air-to-air heat-seeking missiles, the attack jet was also loaded with a full complement of twenty-millimeter cannon shells. Farkas was checking the missiles when one of the cell members rushed into the hangar to report that Bassam Shakhar was on the satellite-phone.
When Farkas lifted the receiver, Shakhar grandly congratulated the terrorist on the downing of Air Force One, then sharply chastised Farkas for not killing the president. Shakhar reported that Macklin survived the crash landing, then went on to loudly reiterate the specific goals he had set forth.
"The entire operation," Shakhar said impatiently, "is centered around killing Macklin. Creating chaos and panic throughout the U. S. ranks a close second on my list of priorities, but killing Macklin is your primary responsibility. The president is your primary target," he said angrily. "Do you understand?"
Not one to take a dressing-down from anyone, Farkas did a slow burn. "My record speaks for itself," he said curtly. "Your record has a blemish," Shakhar loudly retorted. "You are supposed to be the best, but I have my doubts." Farkas gripped the phone so tightly that his hand trembled. "Our goal," Shakhar angrily blurted, "is to kill Macklin and cripple the Americans until the last U. S. soldier is out of the Middle East."
"Islam will prevail," Farkas said loudly and firmly. "The next event is about to start."
Chapter 41
Washington, D. C.
For security reasons stemming from the Atlanta tragedy, the Secret Service had enlisted the Navy to fly President Macklin back to Washington in a nondescript C-2 Greyhound transport plane. In an effort to keep the security profile as low as possible, the afternoon flight was listed as a routine cross-country training mission.
Accepting the president's invitation, Colonel Curtis Bolton flew home with the commander in chief while the rest of Bolton's crew flew on an Air Force transport. Fortunately, all the passengers onboard Air Force One survived the accident. Macklin assured Bolton that he would continue to be the pilot of Air Force One. The two men discussed every aspect of the tragic accident, then talked about Bolton's impending meeting with members of the National Transportation Safety Board.
The president also talked to Bolton about rescheduling the Cornerstone Summit in Atlanta. With the focus of the nation riveted on the Dallas crash and the deadly midair collision involving Air Force One, the race initiative had been overshadowed by more pressing concerns.
Later, over a standard flight-crew box lunch, Macklin and Bolton talked about their upcoming trip to California. The president, who was scheduled to give a speech at a megabucks fund-raiser in San Francisco, was determined to fulfill his obligation. To that end, Macklin had contacted General Chalmers and set the plan in motion.
Working as a close team, the Marines and the Air Force would supply fighter coverage for the flying White House on the way to the West Coast. On the way back from San Francisco, Air Force and Navy fighters would escort the 747. Every detail of the flight would be kept confidential, including the departure time.
After the twin-engine turboprop landed at Andrews Air Force Base, the chief executive had been transferred to an undistinguished military helicopter for a trip to the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. When the thorough checkup had been completed, the president had been driven in a nondescript utility van to the White House to recuperate from the harrowing experience.
Wearing a pair of dark sunglasses to cover his bruised right eye, the president strolled into the basement Situation Room and wearily sat down. He was determined to deal a stunning blow to the terrorists and their sponsors.
Waiting for Macklin were Pete Adair, Hartwell Prost, and General Les Chalmers. The president paused, casting a glance at each individual at the table. "I'm declaring a state of national emergency."
Silently, the men exchanged concerned looks.
Macklin looked straight at Adair and Prost. "Use your own judgment in deploying the Reserves and the National Guard, but secure all military installations. I want all of our bases at `Threatcon Alpha' and I want a massive security clampdown at sensitive federal installations, including nuclear weapons labs. Also, use whatever means you need to surround every airport that has scheduled air service."
In the heat of the moment Adair kept his skepticism to himself. "We better include seaports," he said in a tight, nervous voice.
"Do whatever you think is appropriate," the president said, then changed the subject. "From the ATC tapes and the descriptions from eyewitnesses at the hotel and the airport, the FBI has confirmed that our information from Dalton was right. Khaliq Farkas was one of the two men who were involved in sabotaging the communications in Atlanta. And, in their panic, they left their radios and other equipment at the Marriott."
Macklin's facial muscles grew rigid. "The first thing I intend to do is declare war on terrorism, and the states that support them. I'm going to carry the war straight back to the people who have sponsored Farkas and Ramazani and the rest of the lunatics."
Prost looked uneasy, but remained silent.
The president glanced at Prost, then continued. "I intend to demonstrate to the leaders who use, sponsor, or protect terrorists that they will pay a deadly price for their misdeeds. I may not be able to prevent all the terrorist attacks, but I can sure as hell put the fear of God in their sponsors." The president took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "This evening, I'm going to make my case to the American people. Congress--for the most part--will follow the polls. I will emphasize that my actions to combat terrorism will be carried out in a manner consistent with our nation's laws, values, and interests. I intend to underscore our basic premise; those who would attack the United States, or her citizens, can expect swift and devastating retribution."
Lighting his cigar, Macklin studied Prost and Adair. "I'm going to instruct the secretary of state to notify the Iranians, the Lebanese, the Afghans, and the Syrians--through the Swiss and other allies--that Tehran, Beirut, Kabul, and Damascus are to close every single terrorist training camp in th
eir countries in the next seventy-two hours. If they aren't closed by the appointed time, I will destroy the camps and any form of opposition we encounter."
Prost had a question. "What about the Palestinian Authority, Libya, and the other rogue states that support terrorism?" "The secretary of state will send a diplomatic message to Libya informing them that within seventy-two hours they must close all terrorist training camps, expel all terrorists from Libya, and cease construction on their chemical and biological weapons plants. If they don't comply, we'll eradicate their camps and weapons facilities."
The president puffed on his cigar. "The same for the Palestinian Authority. Either dismantle the terrorist wings of Hamas and Islamic Jihad, or the United States will do it for you--and it isn't open for discussion."
Prost glanced at Macklin, then surveyed the other men. "Another matter we need to address is the Sudanese. What the Barbary Coast was for pirates, Sudan has become for terrorists. I recommend the same time frame for them to close every terrorist camp under their control, or they'll feel the brunt of American military power."
"I'm in complete agreement," Macklin said evenly. "Is there anyone who doesn't support this course of action?" Silence engulfed the room.
Macklin turned to his SecDef. "Pete, I'd like your assessment."
"For the most part, I concur. If the sponsor states fail to comply with our demands, I strongly recommend that we use conventional cruise missiles on the first round of attacks. However, I have to add a caveat."
The president's eyes narrowed. "Let's hear it."
"If the terrorism continues, we better be ready to use our `bunker busters' to destroy their high-value underground complexes, like Libya's chemical weapons plant at Tarhuna and the deep caves in the mountains of Afghanistan."
"Whatever it takes," Macklin said firmly.
"After the Gulf War," Adair continued, "most everyone in the region buried their most important assets, made their weapons more mobile, and fabricated triple-redundant communications systems. It's going to take more than conventional weapons to destroy them."
"As I said, whatever it takes." Macklin turned his attention to General Chalmers. "Do you have any reservations about using the B61s?"
Chalmers hesitated a moment, thinking about the wisdom of deploying the new, needle-shaped, earth-penetrating hydrogen bombs. Packaged in depleted uranium 30 percent heavier than lead, the 340-kiloton warheads would detonate three to six meters below the surface, creating a massive shock wave capable of obliterating targets hundreds of meters wide and hundreds of meters deep.
Weapons experts believed that most of the radiation would be contained underground, if the slender bomb impacted at the proper angle and velocity. If the angle of entry was too shallow, the bomb could slice under the ground, then skip back out and cause extensive collateral damage from a surface blast.
Chalmers quietly cleared his throat. "Using nuclear weapons is a high-risk option, but I'm confident that we can achieve the desired results without contaminating too much surface damage."
Macklin gazed steadily into Chalmers's eyes. "What kind of surface damage are we talking about?"
"Depending on the wind conditions, it's possible that lethal radiation could be spread over eight to ten square miles." "Mr. President," Prost said with a pained expression. "The International Court of Justice has ruled that any threat or use of nuclear weapons, other than where the very survival of a nation is threatened, is against international law."
"When our country is being invaded by terrorists," Macklin said drolly, "I supersede the court."
"You might want to reconsider," Prost advised. "Understand this very clearly," the president retorted in a strained voice. "I am going to put a major damper on those thugs."
Unfazed by the harsh treatment, Hamvell's expression remained the same. "It's your choice, sir."
"You're damn right it is," Macklin exclaimed, and turned to face General Chalmers. "Put the Fifth Fleet on alert and have the Roosevelt battle group ready for action."
"Yessir."
"I'd also like for you and the joint chiefs to give Secretary Adair and me an up-to-date target list in twenty-four hours." "You'll have it in twelve hours," Chalmers said with great enthusiasm. "I'll be here at 0730."
"I'll be expecting you," the president said evenly. "Meeting adjourned."
When Macklin rose from his chair, Prost caught his eye. "Can you spare a few minutes?"
"Sure," Macklin said as he puffed on his cigar. "Let's get out of this hole. I need some fresh air."
The South Portico Ignoring the sage advice of the section chief of the Presidential Detail, the commander in chief and Hartwell Prost sat down in rocking chairs near the South Portico. Macklin was a stationary target for any madman with a high-powered rifle. Add a scope to a weapon having a muzzle velocity high enough for hunting elephants, and the assassin could be miles away before anyone could figure out where the round came from.
Troubled by the accident in Atlanta, the special agent in charge of the Secret Service contingent was extremely unhappy about being overruled by the president. Agent Tim Oberlander, like many other special agents who served in the White House, had warm feelings for the man they were responsible for protecting twenty-four hours a day. The agents were bound by an oath to ensure the safety of the president, and it made their job more difficult when the chief executive did not cooperate with them.
Although the sun had set a few minutes earlier, a reddish orange hue hugged the horizon and provided ample light for some nutcase to train his sights on the president. Uncomfortable about the situation, Agent Oberlander took up his position and carefully viewed the area overlooking the portico.
Along with his fellow agents, he couldn't wait to get his charge inside the mansion and tucked in for the night. Once POTUS--the president of the United States--was put away in the family quarters, the men and women of the detail could take off their shoes and relax, even share a few laughs over a beer and a pizza.
Prost glanced at the Marines guarding the White House, then noticed that Macklin's jaw muscles were grinding back and forth. The president forced a smile as he took in the lights beginning to twinkle in the nation's Capitol.
"What's on your mind?"
"Fraiser Wyman," Prost said mechanically. "His sudden wealth came from a trust fund his grandfather set up years ago. Apparently the old man knew his grandson fairly well. Fraiser couldn't collect the money until his forty-fifth birthday, which was two months ago yesterday."
"I'll be damned," the president said with obvious relief. "What's the flip side--who's in bed with the Iranians?"
"1 don't know," Prost groused. "We'll just have to keep digging. Sandra Hatcher and I will stay on it."
Macklin quietly nodded.
"New subject?" Prost asked.
"Sure."
"Sir, after this incident in Atlanta, it's time to take some extraordinary measures to ensure the safety of you and the first lady."
"Hartwell," the president declared impatiently, "I have the Marine Corps guarding me, I ride around in an armored car, and we've closed part of Pennsylvania Avenue to public traffic. My home is a fortress with reinforced walls, electronic sensors along the fence, metal detectors that screen all visitors, bomb-sniffing dogs running around, over a million and a half dollars' worth of armored glass, and round-the-clock security. Oh, I almost forgot--I have a bombproof subbasement, too."
"Sir, I know you don't like the idea of limiting the public's access to the White House, and to yourself, but you know it's absolutely necessary."
Prost's impassioned words evoked a strong response from Macklin.
"Christ," the president snorted in protest. "We have snipers and antiaircraft batteries mounted on the roof. What's next--gunships circling the White House?"
"That's exactly what I recommend."
Macklin gave Prost a questioning look. "You can't be serious."
"Until we have Farkas and the other nuts in custody," Prost said slowl
y and clearly, "I strongly suggest that armed aircraft--or helicopter gunships--accompany you wherever you go."
"Why not put me in Leavenworth?"
"That's an option," Prost said firmly, then cracked a smile. "Raven Rock would be my choice."
The president was stubbornly persistent. "The people feel more and more estranged from their government. I'm trying to make government smaller--make myself more approachable. At a time like this--a national emergency--I can't afford to distance myself from the public. It sends the wrong message."
Prost lowered his voice so the agents could not hear him.
"Mr. President, I'm asking you to do this as a personal favor to me."
Macklin cringed at the thought of hiding from cowards. "Hartwell, I'm the leader of the country. I can't lead from the back lines."
"Allow the military," Prost said with a steely-calm voice, "to provide air cover until we have the terrorists behind bars, or in the morgue."
The president leaned his head back and pointed skyward. "There are fighter planes orbiting overhead as we speak, twenty-four hours a day."
The sensitive discussion came to an abrupt halt while the two men stared each other down.
"Okay, dammit," the president said with open irritation. "But I don't want fighter planes to be seen anywhere near Air Force One when we're taking off or landing."
"That won't be a problem."
"Let's keep it low-key and quiet."
"Fair enough, sir."
Chapter 42
Fort Lauderdale.
Recovering from the shock of the tragic events in Atlanta, Scott and Jackie were having dinner at the Pier 66 Resort and Marina. Having exchanged their Key West "costumes" for more traditional garb, they were deeply enmeshed in the details of the crash landing when an attractive young lady approached their table.
"Are you the Dalton party?" the sultry brunette asked Scott.