Cloudburst (34 page)

That smart son of a bitch.
“Keep off that frequency, Com. No chances. That guy in the cockpit with them might be able to hear.”

“Yes, sir,” Com responded, a smile evident in his voice.

“We’ll just wait. Get that off to the Pentagon.” It was good news, the commander felt. They had an idea where the aircraft was going, even if it contradicted their earlier announcement.

He also knew that at least one body of men would not be happy to hear the development. Their aircraft was just coming into the inner zone on his scope.

Thunder One

McAffee gave a polite ‘thank you, sir’ to Cadler on the other end of the radio and slammed the headset down on the console in front of the startled communications officer. He stopped at the top of the stairs to the hold, letting the initial anger at the news dissipate. It took a full minute before he proceeded down.

“All right, listen up,” the major shouted. The Starlifter started into a shallow bank to the left. It was obvious to the troops that something wasn’t right—Tenerife was to the south, or right. “Effective now we are in a stand-down. The bird flew.”

The soldiers reacted quietly. This had happened before, but not when they had been so close, in such a big operation.

Anderson looked around, catching Graber’s gaze. It was downcast, but not fixed. “What happened?”

Sean noticed the diagram in Joe’s hand. It had been there for over an hour. “The aircraft took off. We’re heading back.”

“Back? Back to where?” Joe excitedly asked.

“Pope, most likely.”

Joe pulled himself up from the wraparound seat. He worked his way across the tilting cargo deck to McAffee’s position in the darkness of the Humvees’ side. “What the hell is this about going back? What about those things on board?”

The major looked up, almost uninterested in the civilian’s protest. “Unless you think good old Fidel is going to give us landing rights, then we don’t have much choice.”

“What?” Joe didn’t understand.

“Havana, Anderson. They’re going to Havana. They announced it over the radio. Nice, safe Havana, where we can’t touch them.” Blackjack was pissed, and it showed.

Anderson didn’t say anything else. It was just as well, since the major’s eyes said, ‘Back the fuck off’ quite clearly.

Al-‘Adiyat

Failure had again invaded his existence.

Muhadesh pushed the roller-mounted chair into its space under the desk. It didn’t go in completely, requiring him to push it with more force. The jacketed arm fell into view.

Indar
. He, too, had failed. An hour he had been given to restore power, and still they were without it, leaving the camp in the dark and the Americans with only a partial response to their request. Muhadesh bent down with the flashlight and shone it on the body. It was curled into an unnatural ball in the cramped space below the desk. If the diminutive lieutenant was any bigger, he would not have fit. Muhadesh lifted the arm and laid it back against the head. Still there was little blood from the bullet hole in the forehead.

The Beretta was less three bullets. Two used on the whore in the city, and one on the wormy lieutenant. It was still a waste of lead, Muhadesh thought. He tossed the still loaded weapon under the desk. “Take this with you into the hereafter, Indar. It will not help. Satan fears no gun.”

He went to his wall safe. The combination was a date, one he would never forget. The date of al-Dir’s disappearance. Inside the small boxlike vault were some papers, unimportant now as always, and a holstered weapon. It was a Russian-made Makarov pistol, a gift from al-Dir. Muhadesh removed it from its leather holster. The steel was cold and clean, with a slight feel of the penetrating oil he used to regularly clean it. Just enough to keep the rust away. Also in the safe were two clips, both full. He took one, inserted it into the weapon, and chambered a round. There was no need for a second magazine.

He put it back in the holster, clipping that to his belt. Next he checked his pocket; the messages were there, including the last, handwritten one. It was in Italian, his second language. If things went accordingly, someone would get it, and would have it translated in due time. It was best that those who were coming for him didn’t know the entire story immediately.

He grabbed his parka, the one earned as a commando years before. The room was left behind, locked, without a second look or thought. It was now his past.

The military jeep hesitated to start in the cool night, as was usual. It turned over after a minute’s trying. Muhadesh swung it around, heading south from the command center toward the camp’s rear exit road. He followed that to the perimeter gate—actually a hole in the combined barbed wire-chain link fence—and drove through, getting a casual salute from the enlisted man at the rear. Within two minutes the red taillights faded to almost imperceptible dots in the distance as the vehicle headed south, and then east.

It was well past midnight. A new day, Muhadesh thought. A beginning. There was no joy to accompany that thought.

The White House

“Our choices are few, gentlemen.” The president was looking for answers. “I don’t like what is happening.” He was mindful of the contingency plan Bud had set in motion.

Bud and Meyerson were silent. Coventry jingled the ice in his glass. The water was long gone. Outside the light was still evident, though it was tempered by the scattered gray in the sky. It cast pretty, uneven shadows on the south lawn, leaving several of the smaller trees shrouded in the shade of the larger ones.

“Can we get them to land somewhere before going on to Chicago?” Ellis asked.

“The point is to not let them in the country,” Bud responded. “If we let them in, we lose.”

“Then what?” Meyerson inquired of the others, not expecting a satisfactory answer.

“Sir,” Coventry began, “who are the culprits in this?”

“Your point?” the president responded.

Coventry sat forward, putting his glass down. Meyerson grabbed a handful of nuts from the tray, dropping a few into his mouth.

“Leverage and diplomacy of the most delicate order,” Coventry replied. “One of the causes of this crisis, one who made it possible, is sitting protected in a villa somewhere outside of Havana. The world might not know that, but we do, and a certain Communist dictator does.”

Bud wasn’t following the path of Coventry’s words. “How does this fit in?”

“Castro is well aware of Vishkov’s presence in his country. It has been a strain on his relations with some elements of his military, our sources tell us.”

“That’s true, sir,” Meyerson confirmed without prompting.

“Which doesn’t endear Vishkov to Castro or his inner circle. The Russian enjoys protection from Ontiveros, as you heard before, and Ontiveros is one of the political dissenters on the Defense Council. His position is even to the right of Castro.”

“So you think we might be able to use this to…what?” the president asked.

“Not this alone. Castro won’t be swayed by just the knowledge that Vishkov is peddling designs, or that one of them incarnate might be on the hijacked jet. But if we can make it clear to him that we consider his sheltering of Vishkov to be a major factor in this,
and
if we can back that up with some pressure, he might become receptive to our handling of the situation before something horrible happens requiring us to hold him responsible.”

Bud saw another aspect of it. “And if he’s really at odds with this general…”

“Correct,” the secretary of state said, knowing what the NSA’s gist was.

The president saw some hope in the idea, but the logistics would be tricky, and the communication of the message the most difficult part. He had a thought on that. But first… “So we need some pressure? Andrew, can we arrange for some muscle to be in place. Just enough for a credible show.”

“Absolutely. We can rustle up some air power.”

The president put on his business face, the one that Ellis was familiar with. He wore it when a challenge presented itself. It was time for some forceful maneuvering.

“Secretary Meyerson, get word to Delta that the go is back on. They’re going to be going to some unfriendly territory. And Secretary Coventry,” the president added, “get out to Andrews. You’re taking a message to Havana—personally.”

Flight 422

Hadad tried to rest. An hour after takeoff he still twisted in the oversize lounge seat, its back reclined fully to a bedlike position. The vest was next to him.
It
was part of the cause. His neck was now aching, the soreness having spread from the shoulders.

But the vest was not entirely at fault. He knew that in the months leading up to the mission he had become soft. Technical details of the plan that others could have handled he had delved into. Even when the colonel offered to give him more assistance, he had refused.

Hadad realized now that he had erred. He should have hardened his body to match the determination of his mind and soul. It was worthless observation now.

It could have been perfect
, he told himself.
But it will still end in the same way. The purpose will be fulfilled.

*  *  *

To hell with the rules.

Buzz dozed, or tried to. Captain Hendrickson had ordered his first officer to get some rest, knowing that they were both becoming physically exhausted. According to every regulation of air safety they should both be awake at the controls, but the rule writers didn’t have this in mind when drafting those words.

The terrorist behind him was the mild one. Hendrickson wasn’t sure why he classified him as that, considering his participation in the murder, but his manner was definitely different from the others.

This one also spoke English, like his leader, requiring the captain to be careful earlier while slipping information in during the surreptitious radio transmissions. Even with the constant guard he and Buzz had been able to mention, in semi-coded phrases, how many terrorists were aboard (“Did those four Indians get let off with the rest?”) and the types of their weapons (“Just do what they say, Buzz. We can’t take on Uzis and pistols”).

And the destination. Havana. The place itself was no blessing, but just knowing their exact destination allowed the flight computer to do most of the flying. Hendrickson wasn’t even touching the controls. Instead he occupied himself minding the readouts and watching the weather radar. Everything was clear as far out as the electronic eyes could see.

Buzz grunted, drawing a look from the captain and the terrorist. Hendrickson glanced back, and it was the terrorist’s gaze that broke.
Interesting
.

The captain saw his first officer settle down. A dream, he hoped. That would mean that sleep was possible.

He took in and let out a full breath, straightening himself in the seat. The hot mike picked up the sound, which Hendrikson heard through his headset. All that someone on the other end would hear was air rushing past the boom mike. But why wasn’t anyone answering? Someone had to be able to hear. If they would just answer, he could tell them more, maybe in a twenty-questions format.

Forget it
. The thought frustrated him. At least he was getting something out. And Buzz was sleeping. With luck he could nap for hours, leaving him fresh to take over for the captain.

But luck was not theirs. The warbling tone in the cockpit confirmed that. Buzz awoke instantly.

“Number three, Buzz!”

“Damn!” The first officer gave the performance indicators a quick check, which told him all that was needed. “Down to fifteen percent. Shit! Shit! Fluid loss. We’re losing the oil in it. Goddamn it, we’re gonna lose the whole thing!”

“I know,” Hendrickson said as he took control of the aircraft from the computers. “Has to be a bearing failure. Look there—the temp is way up. Shut it down! Shut it down!” There was urgency in the captain’s voice. With no air bleeding from the compressor on the engine, hot air was building up within the turbine. In seconds the leaking lubricants would flash off and ignite, probably causing an explosion. The Atlantic was a long way down.

“Roger.” Buzz cut fuel and power to the engine, which now hung uselessly beneath the starboard wing, causing increased drag. The aircraft reacted to the aerodynamic change by banking to the right. The pilots corrected the upset in attitude with left rudder trim and a reduction in power to the number two engine and an increase in number four.

The door swung open. Hadad entered to find Abu nervously pointing his Uzi at the pilots’ backs. His entry was not noticed, nor was Abu’s ordered departure.

“What is happening?” Hadad inquired, hiding his worry. He sounded unconcerned.

“We lost our bad engine,” Buzz said. “Any other brilliant questions?”

Hadad ignored the defiance. Warning and convincing actions were no longer necessary. An aircraft could easily fly without one engine, he knew. The pilots seemed concerned, though he was confident. He stepped back and sat down.

“We’re off auto for the duration,” the captain said. The aircraft, sluggish already, would now require even more minute directional and altitude adjustments to remain stable and on course. It would be a constant battle. “My stick.”

“Roger that. Down to three-nine-zero knots.”

“Let’s bring her nose up.” Hendrickson made an adjustment to the throttles. “A little more power.”

“Up she goes.” Buzz inched the column back with the captain. The
Maiden’s
nose responded, coming up fractionally. “Looks good. We’re steady at twenty-nine thousand, Bart. Speed down to three-seven-zero and holding.”

Hendrickson’s eyes swept the panel again, a long breath of relief again amplified in his headset as before.
What if…
“Good. Let’s see if she’ll hold it. Negative flight deck audio.”

Buzz caught it instantly, holding his breath while they waited for the terrorist to respond to the message the captain had slipped in. He didn’t.

Anyone monitoring the frequency would now be aware that the pilots were the only ones privy to communication from the outside. Transmissions would be heard in their headsets, and not on the cockpit speaker.