Primary Target (1999) (32 page)

"Like bombing the Chinese embassy in Belgrade," she said mechanically.

"War isn't a precise--" Macklin flared, then stopped himself in mid-sentence.

"It's your reputation that's on the line," she said in a hushed voice, "and it's your future at stake."

"Maria, the United States is in the Persian Gulf to stay, no question about it. There is no alternative, and the committee knows that. We're the big fish in the pond."

"Apparently," she paused, trying to hide her skepticism, "the top dogs in Baghdad and Tehran didn't get the word." The president stifled the impulse to respond to her remark. "The major terrorist groups have announced a call to arms," she said with a vague shrug of her shoulders. "If it were me, I'd try to deflect what happened in the Gulf, and explain what I'd do to keep our country from being held hostage by a bunch of lunatics."

"That's precisely what we're working on," he asserted, an
d
flashed a quick smile for the sake of the luncheon patrons who occasionally glanced at the first couple. "Now relax and enjoy your lunch."

"Right," she murmured. "We're living in a residence surrounded by concrete barriers and armed men--Marines with real bullets. And, as of yesterday, we have over a dozen men with portable missile launchers on the roof. It's like being confined to a palace in the middle of some third-rate banana republic."

Before Macklin could answer, he noticed the Secret Service agents, in unison, cast a glance at the entrance to the Jockey Club. A moment later Fraiser Wyman walked through the door and headed straight for the president's favorite table. Macklin felt a sudden flush of adrenaline when he saw the strained look on Wyman's face. Now what?

"I apologize for interrupting," Wyman said as all eyes turned toward the president's table. "I have to have a word with you, sir."

"Sure," Macklin said hastily as he signaled the dining-room captain. "We'll make it a threesome."

Arrangements were quickly made and Wyman nervously accepted a glass of wine. He had often discussed sensitive matters in the company of the first lady, but he had reservations about speaking openly in the Jockey Club.

"Mr. President," Wyman said quietly and deliberately, "we need to return to the White House as quickly as possible." Maria spoke first. "Fraiser, take a couple of minutes to enjoy your wine, then leave as unobtrusively as possible. We'll be along in a few minutes."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a concerned look.

"And smile," she asserted, then gave a nod to a Secret Service agent dressed as a waiter. He slipped into the kitchen to send the signal that the president would be leaving earlier than planned.

When the first couple sat down in the living room of their private quarters, the president noticed Wyman's new diamond-encrusted Rolex. Macklin gave him a half smile. Somehow, I have to take him out of the loop until Sandra Hatcher and the FBI finish their investigation.

"I know you don't have good news," the president grumbled, "so let's have it straight out."

"Sir, they--the Navy--found some debris from the Hump
10/1."

The president's face went slack before he promptly regained his composure. "When?"

"About forty-five minutes ago."

"What happened?"

"It was sunk--probably by Iran."

"Where?"

"Very close to where they launched the Tomahawks." "They're positive the debris is from Hampton?" Maria asked with only a trace of her usual smile.

"Positive. Something blew the sub apart."

Macklin shuddered. "Any survivors?"

"No, sir."

Maria gave the president an anxious glance. "Who knows about this?"

"I don't know," Wyman confessed, and faced the president. "Sir, we can't sit on this very long. I strongly recommend you go on television and announce what's happened, before the networks break the story."

"Fraiser's right," Maria said firmly. "It isn't good news, but it comes straight from you, before the media can put you on the defensive. Get the bad news out front, then slowly shift the subject to your Cornerstone Summit in Atlanta. It's a major race-relations initiative, and it's very important to America's future. Use it to dilute the controversy about the Gulf, then get on to a message with familiar themes." "I agree," Wyman hastily added. "It'll help take the focus off the negatives and move the agenda to the positive side--to Atlanta. And, it may move us up in the polls."

Macklin stared at the floor, not really seeing it. / have to guide this with a steady hand. "Get the Oval Office ready," he ordered coldly, then glanced at Fraiser's shiny Rolex President.

Wyman caught Macklin's eye. "It's ready sir."

High Above Georgi
a
Wearing a uniform adorned with wings and four gold stripes
,
Khaliq Farkas carefully reviewed the approach procedure
s
for the William B. Hartsfield Atlanta International Airport. This was the last leg of his long day, having dropped portable antiaircraft missiles and terrorist units in other cities.

Drowsy from the afternoon sun warming the cockpit, Farkas yawned, then finished the water in his plastic bottle. The flight from the Florida Keys had been smooth and uneventful, and he wanted to keep things that way. He could ill afford mistakes that might draw critical attention from the en route air traffic controllers.

After receiving clearance from Atlanta Center, Farkas eased the Citation I/SP into a gradual descent toward the bustling airport south of Atlanta. Once established in a stabilized descent, he listened to the automatic terminal information service for Hartsfield International. Afterward he buttoned his collar and adjusted his tie, then glanced into the richly upholstered cabin. "Named, wake up. We're almost there."

"I am awake." Dressed in a pricey Giorgio Armani suit, Hamed Yahyavi casually opened one eye. "How could I possibly sleep?"

Concerned about flying into a major airport, Farkas looked back a second time. "I want you to help me watch for traffic." "I'm on my way." He shrugged, then unfastened his seat belt.

Yahyavi's facial features and body were almost perfect, including his manicured fingernails and well-groomed dark hair. Educated in Europe and at the California Institute of Technology, the electrical engineer appeared to be a normal, well-adjusted person. However, behind the sensitive, soft brown eyes and disarming smile was a true psychopath.

Yahyavi made his way to the cockpit, then settled into the right seat. Looking at the sprawling city, Yahyavi smiled when he thought about their plan. He and Farkas had perfected the procedures in Tel Aviv during May of '96. The Ben Gurion International Airport was shut down for three hours while they panicked pilots and flight controllers. If they had conducted their experiment at night, or in bad weather, the results could have been even more spectacular.

The weather conditions for the Atlanta operation looked extremely favorable--low ceilings and rain--but no one could predict with absolute certainty whether the atmospheri
c
elements would cooperate on any particular morning. If the aviation forecast came to pass, tomorrow morning would be a memorable one for a number of people.

Initially, Yahyavi had argued against the bold plan, pointing out the high risks involved, and the lack of total control over the outcome of the venture. However, Farkas had convinced him that the scheme could be executed without fear of detection.

Arriving at Hartsfield International, Farkas cleared the active runway and taxied to the Mercury Air Center fixed-base operator. An energetic customer-service representative met the airplane and quickly made arrangements for a rental car to be brought to the corporate jet. When the car arrived, Farkas and Yahyavi carefully loaded their equipment into the Crown Victoria.

Afterward Farkas placed the engine covers on the Pratt & Whitneys, locked the airplane, and then chauffeured his "boss" to the registration parking area at the Atlanta Airport Marriott.

After they checked into separate rooms using the names on their counterfeit credit cards, Farkas closely observed a bellhop while he pushed a baggage cart to the rental car. The talkative teenager loaded the two plywood-and-steel containers on the cart, tossed the other luggage on top of the trunks, then followed Farkas to his room overlooking the airport.

Chapter
31

Miami, Florida
.

The early morning was aglow in shades of soft pink and pastel gray when Scott taxied the Maule M-7 floatplan
e
away from the seaplane base. With a high power-to-weight ratio, the Short Takeoff and Landing (STOL) aircraft is virtually unmatched in any other high-wing-strut-braced airplane.

In the right seat, Jackie was organizing the charts, binoculars, cell phone, and camera for quick access. With the seventy-two-hour deadline running out, they were anxious to start searching for the terrorist's yacht and their base of operations. Uncomfortable with the possibility of encountering a nuclear bomb on the yacht, they had avoided discussing the subject.

Dalton was attired in oversized khaki shorts, deck shoes, and a loud, extra-large, multicolored aloha shirt. Multiple magnetic "pierced" earrings, and a Cubs baseball cap, worn backward--completed his eclectic ensemble. His nine-millimeter Sig Sauer was concealed at the back of his baggy shorts.

Jackie's fashion statement included faded denim short-shorts, a revealing sequined tank top, red-and-white sandals, an assortment of inexpensive rings and flashy earrings. Topping off the eye-popping garb, Jackie sported classic Dougla
s
MacArthur aviator sunglasses, a glitzy straw hat with a dozen yellow flowers on one side, and a large canvas tote bag that contained her nine-millimeter Glock.

After energizing the landing light, anticollision beacon, and navigation lights, Scott advanced the power to do a brief run-up, then allowed the floatplane to weathervane into the light breeze. He set the flaps, made sure Jackie's seat belt was secure, checked the trim and rudders, then surveyed the area for boats and other floatplanes. Satisfied that the area was clear of obstacles, Scott brought the yoke fully aft and added full power to raise the propeller out of the spray.

"Here we go," he announced in a confident voice.

As the speed rapidly increased, he shoved the yoke forward to force the amphibious floats up and "on the step" much like a speedboat skims across the surface of water.

"This is great," Jackie exclaimed as the floats slapped the water. "Mind if I follow through on the controls?"

"You might as well fly it," Scott said firmly as he removed his hands from the throttle and yoke. "Can you reach the rudder pedals?"

"Yes--no problem," she answered as she smoothly took control of the airplane. "I've got it."

"Just a touch of back pressure," he coached as the Maule skipped twice and gently lifted into the smooth morning air. "Carry on. I'll handle the sectional chart"--referring to their Miami aeronautical chart.

"Okay by me," Jackie said as she took in the aerial view of cruise ships in the port of Miami. "How high do you want to cruise?"

"Let's try three hundred feet."

"Sounds good." Jackie glanced at the Miami skyline and turned to take in the Atlantic. "I have a question?"

"Shoot."

"Should we concentrate on yachts in the one-hundred-footor-larger range, or should we check everything over fifty to sixty feet?"

"I'd say eighty feet and over," he suggested. "It's just a hunch, but I don't think anything smaller would have the cruising range to make it across the South Atlantic."

Jackie scanned the horizon. "Unless they installed extra fuel tanks."

"That's a possibility, but I think we should concentrate on the larger yachts on the way down. If we don't have any luck, we'll check the smaller boats on the way back." "Sounds like a plan."

The sun began inching above the horizon as they flew low over Biscayne Bay, then followed the intracoastal waterway past Soldier Key and Islandia.

"You might want to step up to five hundred feet," Scott said as he studied a private airstrip east of Card Sound. "We'll drop down again after we cross Highway One."

She added power, then glanced back in both directions. "We're venting fuel over the right wing."

"I know. This thing has been sitting neglected for a long time and the fuel cap is slightly warped."

"Well, that's comforting news. I wonder what else is wrong with it?"

"Hey, if it craters, we'll plop it on the water and find another ride."

"Yeah," Jackie said under her breath. "We haven't crashed anything for almost a week."

Ignoring her ribbing, Scott used the binoculars to study the Florida Keys as the coral-and-limestone islands and reefs curved southwesterly into the Gulf of Mexico. At this hour of the morning, traffic was light on the Overseas Highway that runs from the mainland to Key West, the southernmost settlement in the United States.

Flying over the emerald hues of Key Largo's pristine waters, Scott searched for anything that looked suspicious, including large yachts, and homes on private islands.

"Okay, we can step down to three hundred feet." Jackie eased the nose down.