Cloudburst (29 page)

“Shit!”

“We’re up!” the captain exclaimed.

Buzz retracted the gear without prompting. The aircraft responded to the reduced drag with more speed. The climb-out was on a gentle slope—no jump into the sky for noise abatement reasons. Instead, the
Maiden
skimmed above the glistening desert floor at two hundred knots, gaining speed and altitude at a mild, but acceptable rate.

“My stick,” the captain announced as they passed through fifteen hundred feet. Buzz released his soft backing grip and checked the displays thoroughly.

“Number three’s acting up.”

“Like usual.”

“It’s hot.” Buzz took out the performance manual. “Down four percent—no, five percent.”

“We’ll back all of them off twenty percent when we pass eight thousand.”

“Gotcha,” Buzz agreed.

They continued to take the jet up and over the water, oblivious to Hadad, who stood from his seat and now crouched behind them, looking through the thick windshield. He would rather look behind, but what was the point. Several months ago he had left his home, and now he was leaving without seeing his friend. The colonel had worked tirelessly to bring the mission, once just a concept, to reality, and the effort had weakened him further. Hadad would pray for him.

Now it was time for instructions. “Fly two-seven-oh, at thirty thousand.”

Neither pilot responded verbally to the command—they simply acted upon it, banking the
Maiden
to the left in a smooth, fluid turn. The captain knew he had his hands full with the unbalanced load. Trim would be a problem, especially later as fuel was burned and the balance further changed.

They both concentrated on their flying, trying to keep thoughts of how they had left a passenger behind in the dark, quiet recesses of their minds. It was horrific. Benghazi was behind them, and what was ahead neither knew.

“Set reduced thrust.”

Buzz followed the instructions, selecting reduced climb thrust on the Thrust Control Panel.

“At reduced thrust,” Buzz announced. He noted the altitude. “Passing eight-five-hundred.”

“Spell me?” the captain requested.

“Sure.” Buzz gripped his column. “My stick.”

“Slow and easy climb. The trim is lousy,” Hendrickson said unenthusiastically.

The
Maiden
rose into the sky, finding the cool, thin air that made its ascent slow. It would be a full thirty-five minutes to thirty thousand feet.

The captain checked the instruments, trying to occupy his consciousness. Everything was as it should be, save number three. The mere fact that the wings were still attached could be construed as a positive. But he cared little about the technicalities at the moment. They were small, infinitesimal concerns that would not be able to hold his attention. His thoughts were elsewhere, back at Benina, somewhere along the runway.

Benina

The checkpoint was gone.

Muhadesh slowed his Range Rover, then stopped. Where the tank had been was now only a wide circle of disturbed hard sand and track marks onto the road. They had gone, by the way of the main road from the direction of the tracks. He put it back in gear and continued on.

Two minutes later he again stopped, this time at a guard shack on the north side of Benina’s control tower, and was promptly waved through on recognition by the two smiling guards. Muhadesh was well known to the garrison at Benina, whose company and conversation he preferred to the ideologues back at the camp. These soldiers were from the rabble: common people, not very sophisticated, most from the arid regions far from the city. They were like him, doing their duty. Some did it reluctantly, some willingly. Few of them understood the significance of their government’s attitude toward the Western world, or to their Arab neighbor states. In conversation with them, topics such as goats, and old people, and the joy of swimming in the waters of the Mediterranean were common. It was refreshing, a welcome and too seldom respite from everyday happenings.

Muhadesh brought the vehicle around to the front of the tower, the bottom floor of which was the airport garrison’s command post. The implied formality of the term held little stock here. A lone lieutenant, his shirt open to the waist, dozed with his feet up while an old metal fan high on the wall struggled uselessly to cool the room.

The creak of the tattered screen door awakened the disheveled junior officer.

“Captain Algar!” The lieutenant sat up, struggling against the liberal reclining springs of the old wooden chair. He noticed the captain’s lowered stare and began buttoning his tunic.

“Good morning, Lieutenant. Or is it afternoon? I thought you might be waking from a good night’s sleep.” Muhadesh strode from one side of the CP to the other, his hands behind his back, eyeing the lieutenant alternately as he feigned a cursory inspection. “Is this your usual dress at your post?”

“No,” came the answer, and with it the second from the top button.

The look was the next interrogative.

“It has been a long night, sir.” He fingered some papers on the desk, as if they were some magic explanation. “A very long night. And today’s heat…as always, it takes your strength.”

“Mmm.” Muhadesh picked up a heavy paperweight, tossing it up over and over. “Lieutenant…”

“Hafez.”

“Lieutenant Hafez, where is Captain Ibrahim Sadr?”

“Sadr?” He looked to the piles of work.

A heavy, flat hand came down on a stack of files. “
I
am asking you…not your unfinished work. Now, again, where is Captain Sadr?”

“Sir, he left when the American plane departed.”

“Where?”

A swallow, justified by fear of the captain’s legendary, if seldom exhibited wrath, preceded the reply from the wide-eyed officer. “I do not know. He…he did not say.”

Eyes bored into the junior officer.
You tell the truth
. “Did he have anything with him? A duffel, possibly?”

The lieutenant shook his head, which was enough of an answer. Muhadesh had a good idea what it meant Sadr would not have gone directly back to Tripoli, not the prissy captain who was the “model” of a perfect officer. It was a joke, though one not funny in the least.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Muhadesh left the CP without further discussion and departed the airport by the way he came, waving at the guards as he passed through the gate.

The drive to the camp would be short. He would go there first, and a bit later into Benghazi. Muhadesh would have preferred that it be a clean, simple job. If Sadr had been here, it might have taken less time. He could have lured the prima dona into the open spaces outside of the airport, where things would be less conspicuous. As it was, that was not to be. He would venture into the city and punctuate his departure, making life in his homeland impossible.

And it would be worthwhile. He thought for a moment as he drove. Yes, it would be, but for whom?

The White House

Was this a normal reaction?
the president wondered. He was angrier than he had ever been, at the hijackers, the Libyans, even at himself, though that was caused by the frustration and helplessness he felt. Vengeance was on his mind, and he knew that wasn’t right.

“Has there been any success contacting the Libyans?”

Bud shook his head.

“Sir, even their UN ambassador can’t get through,” Gonzales added.

The president scoffed at that. “He’s falling in line.”

“She, sir,” the COS corrected him.

Bud felt underdressed. The president and chief of staff were dressed somberly for the viewing at eleven.

“What about the body?”

“Satellite evidence indicates it’s still on the runway,” Bud answered. “We’ll work with the Red Cross to have it returned, as soon as the Libyans open up.”

In an hour and a half he would be walking past the body of the slain president, its casket closed for obvious reasons. He would offer a silent prayer for the man, but what could he do for the other murdered American? As president he was expected to provide leadership and answers for the American people. What would he tell them? What could possibly be done to end this madness of terror against innocents? He didn’t know, but he would have to. The public would want a solution. Lip service and hollow offerings, as had been the norm in the past, would not suffice. That was not his way. Whatever was decided would have to satisfy
his
sense of right as well as that of the people, and it would have to be effective.

“And some of our speculation appears to have been at least close to the mark,” Bud said. “I want to show you the last part again.” He reversed the recording for only a few seconds. “Now here we see the aircraft start its takeoff roll. It’s going awfully slow—this is actual time, no compression or slow mo—and here”—Bud pointed to the screen with his pen, leaning in—“we have four good exhausts from the engines, so it appears to be very heavy. Moderately overweight at the least. She’s passing the halfway point here.”

They had watched the images only a few minutes earlier. The scene still caused the president to grimace. The small object on the right wing slid backward and off. It disappeared out of frame as the aircraft continued on.

“And now…” Bud touched the remote, freezing the picture. “This is where they lift off. See, the shadow is changing horizontally under and to the side of the nose.” He let the image progress, then froze it again. “And the main gear. That’s only about two hundred feet from sand.”

“That’s one hell of a pilot,” the president commented.

The COS opened his folio. “His name is Bart Hendrickson. He flew big Air Force stuff. Eight years total in uniform. He’s been with the airline for about thirty years. Their home office says he’s about as experienced as one can get. His co-pilot is a former Marine fighter pilot, Adam Elkins.”

“The Agency is working on some weight estimates,” Bud said.

“But…” The president urged a continuance.

“But so far it only adds weight to the worst-case scenario.”

Gonzales’s folio slapped shut. “Sir, these developments are serious. The rules have changed.”

“Ellis, please.” The president stood and took a few steps, then turned back to face his aides.

“What Ellis means, sir, is that the tide of events has turned. In Britain the SAS would be called in—formally. That’s the way the British do it. There is no second chance for the terrorists once they’ve shed blood. Negotiations are used only to buy time and put the situation in the best possible position for action. We have now reached that point and the only decision we should have to make is which party is the culprit. And, what will be the best response to the situation.”

He felt old, and if the president could have seen his own face with its pursing lips, he would be aghast at the gesture. “I agree. Recommendations?”

“Sir, we put Delta in a go mode and put them in the air.”

The COS nodded agreement.

“To where, Bud?”

“That aircraft is going to have to set down somewhere. We can have Delta there, either ahead of them or right behind. No matter where that may be, all Delta has to do is shadow them until they show their hand. In-flight refueling can keep them up as long as we need.”

“It’s at least a lot more than we’re doing now,” Gonzales added.

The president gestured a go. “Make it happen, Bud. Any final authorization comes from me.”

“Understood.”

“Does Granger have the contingency plans ready?”

“I’ve looked over the preliminary report,” Bud answered. “He’s going to present a full, detailed run through today.”

“Good. Bud, I need your review ASAP. I’ll be back from the viewing about twelve-thirty.”

“Yes, sir.” Bud knew that ASAP did not mean whenever you can get to it—it meant now.

“I’m sorry you can’t attend,” the president said apologetically. Bud had admired the late president greatly. But…

“So am I, Mr. President.”

Springer Seven-Three

The Frisbee-shaped dome above the E3 AWACS rotated continuously. Inside, a crew considerably larger than that of Hammer Two-Seven monitored the progress of the hijacked jet and the pair of swept-wing F-14s from the
Vinson
on its tail. They had arrived on station just east of Gibraltar a few moments earlier and, after clearing the airspace around them, had begun tracking Flight 422 as it headed west.

“Target, course change,” the chief radar operator announced.

The commander swiveled his chair, stood, and walked down three consoles. He plugged his headset into the auxiliary jack. “Where’s he going, Lieutenant?”

“Two-six-oh true, sir. Right for the Strait.”

“And us. He’s angels three-zero, huh?” the green-suited commander asked.

“Yes, sir.”

A flip of the intercom selector switch connected him to the cockpit. “Pilot, take us up. We’ve got a target, angels three-zero, range one hundred, and he’s coming straight on at three hundred plus. Clear us. Copy?” After the acknowledgment he switched back to cabin intercom.

“Holding two-six-oh true, sir.”

“Yep. Com, get those Navy jocks back to their boat. That bird belongs to Air Force now.”

“Roger that.” The radar operator smiled.

Benghazi

Revolution Avenue was a row of ivory-colored low-rise buildings in the eastern section of Benghazi. They were exclusive buildings, all apartments that the ‘average’ Libyan could never hope to live in, or enter. Government officials and ranking military officers were the privileged few who could secure an apartment there, for use as a primary residence or a second ‘home.’

Muhadesh entered the center tower at Number 7 through the simply landscaped courtyard which continued into the structure as an atrium. The decor was sparse but attractive, something unusual in a country where niceties were often associated with the wickedness of the West, and strange when the living conditions of its people were considered. He didn’t consider himself to be a socially conscious person, but it did bother him. What meager resources his country had were supposed to provide as good a life as possible for the people. Muhadesh knew better, having seen where the money went.