Cloudburst (8 page)

“Roger, Athens. Descending to four thousand. Maintaining two-eight-zero to VOR intersect.”

“Inbound, five-zero miles.” Buzz called out the distance to ‘wheels down.’

Hendrickson acknowledged the announcement, smiling at the half-oval glow where earth met sky. Even glitches couldn’t dampen his spirit, nor the growing sense of nostalgia he was experiencing. The big, beautiful 747-400 could just as easily have been an old Lockheed Constellation, his first command in the Air Force. That moment flashed back in his mind. God! Had it been
that
long?

“I hope three doesn’t drop anymore,” Buzz commented, his attention focused on the instruments.

“If it does we’re going to have to have a spare feathered in.”

“That, as they say, would be a bitch.” The sight of a spare engine attached to a perfectly good 747 was unnatural. The spare, slung beneath a wing like a normal, functioning engine, made the bird look lopsided and perform sluggishly. Buzz didn’t want to wish that upon any other pilot. He had previously been fortunate enough to crew on a big jet that had brought one into Karachi, Pakistan, and it had not been fun. “Specs say one to two constant is nominal. Three to uh…” The first officer scanned the specification and performance lap book for the 747’s power plants. “…three to six is acceptable.”

“Yep. It fluxed to twelve that last time before they replaced it. We can call ahead and have one waiting at Heathrow tomorrow.”

Buzz hated delays, but a delay in London was better than a delay in Athens. For all its supposed beauty, he hated the city. It was dirty everyplace he looked. “Sounds like a plan.”

Hendrickson gave it a subtle nod, and Buzz called the ground maintenance station in Athens on the company frequency. They would notify Heathrow.

The bustling British airport would be a welcome destination for the captain. His last stop before arriving home…for good. Thirty-two years in the air had been good to him. Never again, though, would he have to leave Anita. Yes, thirty-two years of good-byes had been difficult, but she had never, ever complained. She knew that her husband loved to fly, almost as a child would look wide-eyed at the big and pretty planes as they landed. He had wished as a child to fly someday, a wish that became reality in the Air Force. Anita remembered his excitement the day of his first solo in a Lockheed Constellation. Nothing could shut him up. He told her every detail of the two-hour flight, and most of it was Latin to her. His outward excitement had softened over the years, but not the inner rush.

“Passing ten thousand,” Buzz announced. He could see the slight smile on the captain’s face and the reflection of the day’s last light in his dark aviator glasses.

“Roger.” Hendrickson pressed the seat belt sign activator.

“Three’s back up to nominal.”

“Good. Maybe we won’t have to delay in England.”

“Anxious to get home, Bart?”

“I’m always anxious. This time I get to stay.”

At-‘Adiyat, Libya

It was a place shown only on the maps of some intelligence services, but it did exist, just south of Benghazi. There were buildings, some modern, but none larger than would be found elsewhere in the desert, and there was space. That was the need. Space for those who came to Al-‘Adiyat to become proficient at their craft. To help them, there was a teacher.

Did they not receive my warning? Did they not believe me?

Captain Muhadesh Algar felt the warmth fading from his back as he pondered what had happened. He swiveled his chair around to face the open window. There was a glow on the horizon from the sun, and to the north the lights of Benghazi would soon start to overcome the approaching desert night. Very far away something was happening in America. He wondered what. He had tried to warn them.

“Captain Algar.”

Muhadesh swung around. It was Indar. “Lieutenant.”

“I knocked, sir, but you did not answer.”

The wormlike lieutenant may have knocked, Muhadesh thought, but probably not. A father on the Revolutionary Council could get you any job, and protect you from losing it, even if you were a tactless incompetent. “What is it, Indar?”

“Sir, the new group scheduled to arrive tomorrow has been canceled.”

“On whose authority?”

“Colonel Hajin,” Indar answered, swallowing hard. His job was safe, but Captain Algar’s wrath was legendary, especially of late he was told.

Muhadesh pulled himself up to the desk. The lieutenant stood at perfect attention before his commander, his hands folded left over right behind his back, just as prescribed in the regulations. In appearance he was a fine officer. Every crease in his green uniform was straight and crisp, his hair was trimmed in the fashion of a recruit, close to the skull, and his face was shaved as close as close could be. He was attentive to detail, as expected, and followed every order exactly.
But the orders are not always mine, Indar. You listen too well to others.

“I see,” Muhadesh replied calmly. He opened the top center drawer of his metal desk and removed his writing paper.

“Sir?” Indar was at a loss. His commander was accepting this too easily.

“Do not worry, Lieutenant,” Muhadesh said, looking up at his young assistant.
Twenty-five and a lieutenant in the Training Battalion. My battalion!
“Colonel Hajin must have his reasons. Good reasons. You show too much concern for an executive lieutenant, Indar. Others better equipped than we to understand situations make these decisions, and we obey. Of course I am not happy with the loss of a group, but it has happened before. Maybe the Americans are in an excited state after the death of their president and are thinking, once again, of taking vengeance upon us. Colonel Hajin would surely not want a group of our revolutionary brothers caught in a raid by the devil Americans. We are a target, after all.” Indar began to smile with understanding. That was the one nice thing about the lieutenant: He bought the revolutionary hogwash without question. “So go about your duties. I will deal with the developments.”

“Yes, sir!” Indar saluted enthusiastically, a smile spreading across his narrow face. The commander would surely let Colonel Hajin know what he thought about the cancellation of this month’s class. Captain Algar was a master of the venomous pen. Indar could only imagine what his commander would write in his message to the high-and-mighty Hajin in Tripoli.

He did imagine, but he was wrong. Hajin, Colonel Muhammar Qaddafi’s personal aide and a man of considerable power, would receive no letter from Muhadesh—he would receive a visit. The written message was going elsewhere.

Benina Airport, Benghazi

The last of the daylight had touched the ceiling of the hangar through the slightly parted sliding doors a few minutes before. The three men who were in the hangar did not notice this, as the powerful overhead lights created their own sense of day and night as they were turned on or off. They were all ready and waiting to begin what they had prepared for. There had been many months of training in a place near where all three had grown up, though it was not their home. It could not be. Only one place could be their home. One day it would be. All there was to do now was continue with the minor last- minute details that were important preparations for success, but at this stage more so for usefully occupying time.

One of the three stood, taking his weapon in hand from the small square table, where two others were disassembled for cleaning. The Israeli-made Uzi felt good, but still a bit slick from the penetrating oil used to clean the desert dust from its exterior. He took it by the sling, wiping his palm on his pants. It never occurred to him that his choice of weapons was somewhat ironic, yet a man could be easily killed by his own handiwork. That might have pleased him, if his limited intellect were to allow its comprehension.

“I am going to rest,” the man spoke, his voice soft and steady with a slight nasal pitch. It was mild in comparison to his size, which was massive, both in height and width.

“We will wake you, Wael,” Abu assured him.

Wael walked toward the small office on the opposite side of the hangar, passing the four large boxes that sat on wheeled aircraft cargo pallets. They were connected in a short train as ordinary ones were, but the five-foot green cubes were not the usual metallic containers. They had the appearance of oversized wooden boxes with two-by-fours for edge supports and diagonal braces from corner to corner. Without breaking stride he let his free hand go to the boxes and glide along their surfaces. He wondered what was in them. What was it that they now sat with that would help them succeed in their mission?

The thought left him when he entered the small office, separated from the hangar by glass. A cot had been moved in there, and a second later his body disappeared below the window line.

Three

A CERTAIN MR. JACKSON

Los Angeles

The maroon Ford Taurus sat idle among a sea of cars whose engines were coming to life as FBI agents and employees of the impound yard worked methodically to move the other vehicles surrounding it. There normally would be a steady roar as cars passed the Harbor Tow Company on the 110 freeway as noon approached, but the air was silent except for the noise in the yard itself and the background sounds of police radios. At the request of the Bureau, the California Highway Patrol had closed the old freeway, so aged and dangerously curved that trucks were forbidden to travel it from downtown to Pasadena.

A senior agent of the Bureau’s bomb unit approached Art, who was standing behind the only protective barrier available, just fifty feet from the car.

“Art. How’s it going?” Agent Larry Purnell asked.

“You tell me in about a half an hour,” Art answered.

“Ha.” Purnell laughed. “You think this’11 save your ass?” He patted the cinder block wall.

“Thanks.” Art knew that Purnell’s triple-layered Kevlar and Nomex ‘moon suit’ would do little to protect him if the car was booby-trapped.

Another member of the bomb unit came up. “Nothing obvious.”

“You check the wheel wells?” Purnell inquired, pulling on his Kevlar-covered bubble helmet.

“Yes, sir.”

Larry Purnell smiled wide through the clear Lexan faceplate. “Good. We’ll sweep it again.”

“Right.”

“Larry.” Art put his hand on the man’s padded shoulder. “The manager said they slim-jimmed it when it came in. Still, no heroes. Okay?”

“Me?” His smile hinted of the devious. “C’mon.”

Minutes later the area around the Ford was clear and the preliminary sweeps of the vehicle’s underside for explosive triggers was done. The fact that the vehicle came in on the hook of a tow truck pretty much ruled out any motion sensors to trigger a device, and a door- or domelight-activated switch was not likely since the driver’s door had been opened in the yard. But was there a key switch? Purnell would be the first to know.

First would be the trunk. Every person in the yard cringed or ducked behind cover as the agent inserted and turned the key. There was an immediate click as the trunk lid popped up a few inches. Purnell was careful not to touch anything as he gave the rear of the vehicle a cursory inspection. He next moved counterclockwise around the vehicle, opening each door. The hood was last. He released it from inside, then inspected the engine compartment carefully, taking extra time to look for any additional wires or parts. Once a car he was checking was equipped with two batteries, the second one having four sticks of dynamite inside.

There was no explosion or hint of any booby trap. It wasn’t ‘tricked.’ Art breathed now, not only because of the lack of explosion, but because the key fit. It was the car. Confirmed. He was just damn glad that a young agent had had the gray matter to put two and two together when no one else could see the numbers. After striking out on her first check of one of the many parking garages downtown, a rather clever thought had struck her. The belief was that the shooters had parked nearby in one of the public pay lots and walked to the 818. It made sense. But Special Agent Francine Aguirre had come up with a different idea: What if the shooters just had parked the car on the street? The nearest lot was on the back side of the 818, which would have required them to walk around to the front. Two M-16s and LAW rockets would not have been the easiest things to hide on the downtown street. Aguirre’s theory also made sense, and more of it. If the shooters were on a one-way mission, why garage their car? Just street-parking it would ensure its proper disposal by the parking enforcement unit of the city, whose contracted tow trucks swept the congested downtown streets clear of illegally parked vehicles. Her quick thinking earned a personal commendation from Art, and a bump up on the investigative team. She and her partner were already at the LAX-based rental company whose license plate frame identified the car as one of theirs. Eddie was coordinating this new aspect of the investigation from the Hilton.

Art would wait with the car as the forensic teams poured over it. He doubted they would find much. That was the way this thing was going. Eddie was right. The shooters were damn stupid to leave the car where it could be found, but it protected their backsides. There was a trail that Art could imagine already. It stunk.

The car was a solid lead, though. That was satisfying. Art popped a stick of cinnamon gum in his mouth and pulled off his jacket. He leaned back, half sitting on the wall. The sun was beating down as it had for so many days. The weatherman said it would be cooler than the day before. Art wasn’t sure about that. It felt like another hot one coming on.

The White House

The president stood alone in the Oval Office, touching the front of his desk lightly as he gazed through the windows to the outside. On the credenza, along with the recently placed pictures of his wife and parents, was the gumball machine that had belonged to the late president. His widow had insisted that it should stay there, with her husband’s successor. And the chair. It was a bright, fire-engine-red rocker that was known as the Santa Claus chair.
He never even had the chance to be Santa for his grandkids in the White House
. She wanted the chair to stay too.
Damn
.