Cloudburst (46 page)

“It’s just a more defined form of what we are ready to do with our fleet and our bombers. Ninety percent of those
freedom fighters
in the targeted training camps have never fired a shot at an American, much less even looked at one. But we’re still going to blast them to their maker, am I right? Well, if that’s not guilt by affiliation and profession, then I don’t know what is.”

The ending of Bud’s soliloquy hit home. It was precisely what they had been planning to do, only it was sure to stir further resentment elsewhere in the Middle East. And would it send a message other than that America had the biggest guns in town? It rang back to Teddy Roosevelt’s
speak softly and carry a big stick
. The stick was no question, but the words were thunderous.

“So you think we should forgo the strike and concentrate on quieter means?”

“Within the law, Mr. President. Following the guidelines for covert action.”

“There are still laws against what you are proposing,” Meyerson commented. The wind seemed to be out of his opposition.

“Again, not entirely. There are laws that allow personnel of government agencies to use necessary force to protect civilian lives. You can look it up. I have.”

Obviously
, the president thought.

The phone rang, and Landau picked it up. “It’s Secretary Coventry, Mr. President.”

He took the receiver and listened for only half a minute before handing it to Meyerson. “The secretary has informed me that the plane will be refueled very soon.”

It was approaching decision time, and now the president had a second, and more difficult decision to make.

Flight 422

“What do you think, Bart?” It was their first open, unheard question in many hours.

Hendrickson glanced back. The door was shut. “There’s enough noise from the engines. He won’t hear.”

The head terrorist had left them unattended, unexpectedly and without notice. It was their chance for some real information.

Buzz nodded. “Do it. Hurry.”

“Four-Two-Two heavy to any United States aircraft; come in.”

There was a short pause of static, then the reply.
“Four-Two-Two, what is your situation?”

Hendrickson could sense the worry in the caller’s voice. “Don’t worry. The head guy left us alone. He’s the killer, but I don’t know his real whole name. Just his first: Mohammed.”

“Right, Four-Two-Two. We have good IDs on your friends. Now listen carefully. You were just about to hear from us. Help is there, at the airport, and they’re going to join you real soon. Do you understand?”

Hendrickson looked to his first officer and mouthed the word what? “A rescue? But how are…never mind. Go on.”

“All right. You’re gonna play a big part in this. How’s your acting?”

Huh?

Without waiting for an audible reply the caller went on, explaining the plan in just under a minute.
“You’ve gotta deliver some kind of diversion and keep Mr. Big in the cockpit as long as possible. Something believable. Can you handle it?”

The pilots were still trying to swallow the idea of what was going to happen. “Yeah. That’s a roger, but are you sure about this?”

“Army says it’ll work, and I hear they get things right sometimes. Hey. They’re good. They’ll get you out of this.”

Right. Okay, I guess I’ve got to believe this.
The captain realized he’d forgotten something. “Air Force, if this works we’re going to need a hell of a long runway.”

“Your brakes are gone, then. We monitored your engine and flap trouble. Hell of a job flying there, Four-Two-Two. Okay, we’ll get that figured out, and good luck on your takeoff. Weather informs me that you’ve got a twenty-five-knot surface wind coming straight down that runway you came in on if you go out the reciprocal.”

That might not be enough, but it would definitely help. “Thanks again, Air Force.” Hendrickson hoped it would be enough. It was time for some curiosity satisfaction. “Air Force—what the hell is weighing us down?”

Again, a pause preceded a terse reply
. “Four-Two-Two, you don’t want to know.”

*  *  *

First they had started fueling on the left side, and then they switched to the right, necessitating moving the tankers and the pumper. Hadad wondered at first if they were not really workers, rather commandos in disguise. But, after all, this was friendly territory. The Cubans would simply want them to land and be on their way, and the closest American commando was across the Florida straits.

Why, then, am I nervous?
he asked himself, instantly realizing that he was exerting extra pressure on the small round button that kept him alive.
Possibly because I am so close to victory. Yes.
The two brother fighters he took his name from, Mohammed Boudia and Wadi Hadad, had tasted victory.
And they, too, are in paradise.
That thought calmed him.

His seat on the right side of the lounge allowed him to watch the entire process: the scissor like lift on wheels lifting two blue-clad workmen up to the underside of the wing, where they attached the thick gray hose. The rumbling of the vehicles’ motors was distinct above the steady whine of the jet engines. Hadad wondered when they would be done.

“Mohammed.” It was Abu. Wael was beside him, looking perplexed. Hadad knew why.

“Go, Wael,” he said in his native tongue. “You watch the Americans.”

The big terrorist looked at Abu, who still stared at their leader, then entered the cockpit. Hadad turned back to the window.

“I can feel your words, Abu, so do not hold them in on my account.”

The younger of the two ran his hand through the black waves atop his head, his eyes searching the floor for words before coming back up to his leader. Hadad had turned to face him. His eyes were sullen, and very, very tired.

“We are in trouble, Mohammed?”

Hadad shook his head. It leaned slightly right, giving him an angular perspective of his comrade. He looked up and down at him.

“You are lying.”

“And you are too soft.”

“Soft!” Abu shouted, the word coming out in an Arabic shriek. “You leave the Americans alone at the controls, for how long now, so you can sit in here and…what?…pray for good fortune! And you say that I am soft?”

Hadad did not match Abu’s furious tone. “And who did you leave to watch all those below?” The rhetorical inquiry broke Abu’s gaze, sending his eyes back to the floor, but leaving his teeth visibly clenched. “Abdul.”

“He is—”

“—is alone with hundreds of our prisoners right below your feet. When there should be no fewer than two of you watching them, you leave only one. And as for good fortune, my friend, my brother, it is assured. Would Allah not have blessed us with life to this point if He had not wanted us to succeed?”

Abu breathed out his wrath. “Then we are in trouble.”

“Allah has protected us.”

“Against what? Why do you try to deceive me, and the others? We are not blind. The aircraft acts as if it is dying all around us.” Abu’s tone was a mix of cynicism and pleading. “Why are you pushing us so hard? Why are you pushing yourself? We are safe here. If there are problems with the aircraft we can stay and have repairs done before going on. The Cubans would not deny us that. What would a short delay—”

“No delay!” Hadad responded in a burst of determination.

“But—”

“No!” He stood up and stepped closer to Abu, leaving their faces only inches apart. “We are on a mission, one charged by Allah, and we will not delay its conclusion. If you choose to be weak and soft, then I have erred in my judgment of you. I believed that you were a soldier of Allah, a true one, who would accept his fate willingly.” Hadad knew the last words had slipped out.

Abu’s suspicions, which had grown in the last twelve hours, were confirmed. This was never meant to be a mission to humiliate and win concessions from the Americans. The reasons and intentions now became crystal clear. It was a personal mission they were on, not of their choosing, but of their leader’s. A grand drama of deception, indeed. One most effective on the integral parties.

“And the weapons in the hold?” Abu remembered being assured by Hadad that they were just for the Americans’ benefit, and were totally harmless.

“Gifts from Allah and our Arab brethren.”

Insh Allah
, Abu said to no one. “You are going to use them on the Americans…in their own land.”

“We are,” Hadad corrected him. “At the very heart of their infidel government. It will be more than appropriate, and convenient for them. The mourning will already be in progress.”

“I see.” It was all Abu could think to say. His wife and his child would be living without him. The solace was that, if his leader was right, he would soon be in paradise, awaiting a glorious reunion.

That thought, however comforting, was short-lived. Abu had to admit that there were doubts now in his thoughts. Would he be with Allah, and the prophets of Islam? He wondered. He truly wondered.

Hadad slid back and sat on the arm of the aisle seat, leaning on the back with his free arm. “Accept your fate, my friend. Go below and help Abdul. I will have Wael rest up here. He has been awake much of the journey, yes?”

“Yes.”

Hadad smiled. It was meant to reassure his comrade. Abu turned his head first, his body following a split second later, and headed down below, his soul not yet at peace, but his mind having accepted his fate as a martyr.

* * *

Sandy was still sleeping, thank God. Michael could feel her chest rise and fall against his left arm, and occasionally her nose would rub against his neck as she nestled closer. The shouting from above had not awakened her as it had a few others. A man and woman across the aisle exchanged worried looks with Michael, and the terrorist forward of where they sat had nervously looked up sporadically during the verbal match. None of what was said—or yelled—had been heard with any clarity, but could displays of bellicosity mean anything good? Michael thought not.

The muffled thud of hard shoes on the carpeted stairway started, then stopped. One of the hijackers had come down. That left two upstairs. Michael had found himself increasingly keeping track of where the terrorists were, and how many were anywhere at any one time. Their situation, he felt, was not getting any better, and the fight or whatever upstairs didn’t lend comfort in the least. Something was wrong, in spades, and he was determined that if they started shooting, he was going to know where the nearest gun was, and he was going to take it—or die trying. For Sandy’s sake.

The thoughts that would have been more familiar in his military days abruptly faded. One of the terrorists, the one who had just come down, was walking aft. He was approaching Michael’s row.

For whatever reason, their eyes met, and the visual exchange seemed to slow time. The shared, silent exchange was brief, yet telling. Michael had seen something, more in the terrorist’s eyes than on his face. It was…what—futility? No. Resignation. That was it.

Michael was scared. For both of them. He was doubly grateful that his wife was sleeping, and he consciously listened to the sound of the footsteps retreating aft. He figured, after they had stopped, that the man was past the middle bulkhead of the nearly silent aircraft.

*  *  *

The rhythmic thrumping of the piston-driven pumper stopped with a sputter. Hadad moved to the window quickly. They were done. The last of the tank trucks was pulling away and the scissor lift was coming down next to the pumper. He carefully shifted the thumb switch to his left hand and took the Uzi in his right. Its barrel tapped rapidly on the cockpit door, and Wael opened it inward without taking his eyes off the pilots.

“Wael. Go rest.” Hadad added a head toss to the words.

Silently the huge terrorist slid between the half-open door and its frame, which Hadad closed and locked.

“They are done with refueling, correct?”

“Just now,” Buzz answered.

“Then we are leaving.” Hadad pressed the gun to the back of Buzz’s neck and leaned far forward, looking out the right-side window. The last two pieces of equipment were just clearing the area. “Get moving.”

“No way,” Hendrickson responded to the order.

With the barrel still embedded in the co-pilot, Hadad held the thumb switch out toward the captain. “You defied me before. This time your number two dies. Now move.”

“Listen. We have no brakes. None. How do you expect us to get in position for a takeoff if we roll into the mud beside the runway trying? If you want this aircraft to get off the ground, then we’re going to need a tug to position us. Got it?”

Hadad eased up the pressure of the Uzi. Buzz wanted to laugh, but just continued smiling and looking straight ahead. The cap was playing this guy hard.

“Get it,” Hadad ordered, stepping back. He held his left hand and the switch out in front until reaching the jump seat. It was just a minor delay, he kept telling himself. Just a minor delay.

Hangar 3C

“Did you see him?” McAffee asked.

“Twice. It was the same guy, I’m sure.” Sean handed the binoculars back. The vantage point was almost perfect through the six-inch opening between the hangar doors. “He was just looking out the cockpit window, and a minute ago he was looking out from one of the upper-deck windows.”

They had never had a picture of the head terrorist, but it was a sure bet he was the one in the cockpit. Past experience had shown that these guys liked to be in control.

“Captain, remember the face: He’s ours.”

Control Tower, Jose Marti Airport

Secretary Coventry was flanked by one aide and two gun-toting Cuban security troops, neither of whom seemed to be officers. It looked as though Castro wanted as little official contact with the United States as possible. All the better, the lanky Minnesotan thought, as he watched events unfolding from the blacked-out glass box a hundred feet above the ground.

The setup was entirely modem, to his surprise. He was a pilot, schooled completely in small, private craft, and had visited many a tower in his adult life—and in his early life, he reminded himself. His father was a farmer, then and now, though at almost eighty years of age he had largely turned over the operation to his youngest son, the secretary’s little brother. In his prime, though, he had flown the crop duster personally out of the airport near the four hundred acres, often taking his children up with him.