by Larry Bond
“I think we’re facing a small number of uncommonly skillful and resourceful terrorists. Probably with military training or experience. And, given their choice of targets, their political orientation seems clear.” Leiter shook his head glumly. “But I seriously doubt they’re in our files as active members of existing neo-Nazi organizations. We’re checking out every possible suspect anyway, but so far, we’re coming up empty.”
“What about a foreign connection?” Admiral Andrew Dillon, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, asked. “I understand your agents have been investigating a possible tie-in to Germany’s neo-Nazi organizations.”
“That’s correct, Admiral.” The FBI Director nodded toward his counterpart from the CIA. “With help from Bill’s people we’ve been trying to rule the possibility in or out.”
“Have you made any progress?”
“Nothing significant. At least not so far.” Leiter shrugged. “Several hundred thousand Germans visit the U.S. every year on business or as tourists. That’s rather a large haystack to hunt through for what must be a very small needle.”
“Terrific, Mr. Leiter,” the President ground out. “Do you have any good news to report—or just more about all the things you don’t know?”
The tiniest flash of irritation crossed the FBI Director’s face, but then vanished beneath a bland mask. “Some good news, Mr. President. Our investigative teams are just beginning to work the Chicago crime scene, but we do have a few leads in the National Press Club bombing.”
“What kind of leads?”
Leiter started ticking them off one by one. “First, we’ve been able to track the explosives used to their point of origin—a manufacturer in Arizona. One of Special Agent Flynn’s teams is combing through their records right now—”
“To find the buyer?” the President interrupted.
“Possibly.” Leiter shrugged. Privately, he doubted the people they were up against would have made so elementary an error. He fully expected to learn that the C4 plastique had been purchased by a dummy corporation with a forged certificate. But it seemed impolitic at the moment to explain his low expectations on that score. He pushed ahead. “We’ve also definitely identified key components of the various explosive devices—electrical cabling, shards of electronics junction boxes, and pieces of a rigged VCR and video camera.”
The President looked closely at him. “And that’s significant?”
Leiter nodded. “Yes, sir. For example, Flynn informs me that his experts have concluded the bombs were manually armed.”
“So the son of a bitch was there? Right in the room?”
The FBI Director nodded again. “Yes, sir. The various devices were concealed among all the other television and radio equipment in the room.”
“Were your investigators able to pick any prints off the debris?” the CIA Director, William Berns, asked softly.
“Two,” Leiter confirmed. “One thumbprint. And one partial from an index finger. Both off what was left of the video camera case.” He saw the surprise on the other faces in the Cabinet Room and explained. “Fingerprints often survive even the intense temperatures and pressures in an explosion. If the bomber has ever had a run-in with the law or served in the military, for example, we should be able to identify him—given enough time at least.”
For the first time in the meeting so far, the President’s features relaxed slightly. “Anything else so far, David?”
Leiter nodded. “Yes, sir. Some of the lettering on the camera case also came through the blast intact. The letters ECNS. We think that stands for ‘European Cable News Service.’”
“And?”
Berns, the CIA Director, answered that. “We checked, Mr. President. No such organization exists. It’s a complete fabrication.”
“Shit,” the President muttered.
Leiter took up the tale. “But that does confirm that the bomber gained access to the press club by posing as either a technician or a correspondent. Flynn’s people are busy interviewing all the survivors again, looking for anybody who might have seen this person. If we can work up a good physical description from what they tell us, we can plaster it over every square inch of this country.”
The President nodded his understanding. “Keep Flynn and his team hard at it then, David.” His mouth tightened. “I want results I can take to the nation. And soon.”
“Excuse me, Mistah President.” Jefferson T. Corbell’s soft Georgia drawl cut through the murmurs of agreement from everybody else around the table. He stabbed a slender finger at the television. It was still showing pictures of looters roaming Chicago’s smoke-filled streets. “Catching these people is all well and good, but what the country wants to know—right now—is what you’re going to do about that.”
“True enough, Jeff,” the President said reluctantly. It was no secret that he preferred prolonged and theoretical discussions to hard decision-making. He looked around the room. “Both the mayor of Chicago and the governor of Illinois have officially requested federal troops to help restore order in the martial-law zone. I need your views on that.” He glanced at the white-haired Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Admiral Dillon?”
Dillon sat up straighter. “I’ve conferred with the Army’s Chief of Staff, General Carleton. He informs me that we could have a full mechanized infantry battalion from the 1st Infantry Division at Fort Riley on the ground in the city within twenty-four hours, with the rest of a brigade in place in two days.”
“What about the 82nd Airborne or the 101st?” the President asked, clearly somewhat surprised by their omission. “Aren’t they part of the contingency force?”
“Yes, sir,” the admiral answered patiently. “And that is why General Carleton would prefer to use the 1st Infantry. Both the 82nd and the 101st are our immediate reserve against a crisis somewhere overseas. Committing either one to a domestic peacekeeping role would measurably strain our readiness.”
“I see.” The President sounded unconvinced. His limited experience of military operations had taught him that the American people were reassured by the sight of the two elite divisions swinging into action. Their use was also a clear signal of serious intent and firm resolve.
Shaking her head vigorously, the Attorney General leaned forward. “Mr. President, I strongly advise against sending federal troops to Chicago. It would be provocative and an unnecessary infringement of civil liberties.” She frowned at the television. “Frankly, I believe both the mayor and the governor have already overreacted badly—turning a peaceful demonstration into a full-fledged riot. Committing Regular Army units to the fray would only compound that error.”
Corbell made sure the President could see him and nodded slightly, privately signaling his own agreement with the Attorney General’s heated comments. The Georgian kept his own reasoning quiet. Though the alliance had been frayed by the lack of progress so far against these radical white-power terrorists, black Americans were still one of the administration’s most loyal constituencies. Seeing federal soldiers shooting black Americans in the streets of Chicago would only inflame an important political bloc they would need desperately in the next election.
“What are you proposing, then, Sarah?” the President asked sharply.
“I suggest that we focus on the real enemy here—the radical right. They’re the real menace—not the inner-city poor. So I propose a renewed push by you for much tighter gun laws. This is a golden opportunity to move our legislation through the Congress.” Carpenter’s eyes gleamed. “After all, if we can disarm the crazies, we’ll solve most of this terrorism problem—once and for all.”
She shrugged. “Beyond that and pressing the FBI’s ongoing investigations forward at a rapid pace, I see no need to panic.”
Along the Potomac, near Georgetown
(D MINUS 32)
Two miles west of the White House, the quarter-mile-wide Potomac River drifted lazily past a wooded northern shore. A national park established to preserve the remnants of the historic Chesapeake
& Ohio Canal separated the capital city’s elegant and exclusive Georgetown district from the river. Across the expanse of slow-moving water, the modern steel and glass skyscrapers of Rosslyn, Virginia, dominated the southern skyline.
On mild days, the clerks, waitresses, and waiters who worked in Georgetown’s trendy boutiques, antique stores, and restaurants found the canal park and the Potomac waterfront a pleasant place to eat lunch or read a book. But it would be far too cold for that today. Even the light breeze coming off the river intensified the chill. The weak sun was blocked by scattered high-altitude clouds, giving the morning light a gray, thin quality.
Sefer Halovic sat with studied calm in the back seat of their chosen transport for this operation—a black Ford Econoline van. Ali Nizrahim sat next to him, nervously glancing out the side windows from time to time. Nizrahim was a light-skinned Iranian, a small man with long experience in the use of special weapons. Khalil Yassine, their Palestinian driver and scout, was behind the wheel. They were parked facing the exit of the small car lot near the tree-lined Chesapeake & Ohio Canal. Only the steady rumble of rush-hour traffic heading into downtown Washington along the elevated Whitehurst Freeway broke the early morning stillness.
Yassine had stolen the Econoline in Maryland the night before. Now it bore North Carolina license plates—stolen weeks before and held in readiness for just such a use.
All three men were dressed in jeans, running shoes, and dark-colored winter jackets. All wore black gloves. Their outfits were effectively anonymous, devoid of anything distinctive that might draw attention to them now or that potential witnesses might remember later.
Both Halovic and Nizrahim carried 9mm pistols in shoulder holsters under their jackets. Yassine had their heavier small-arms firepower hidden beneath the empty seat beside him—an Israeli-made Mini-Uzi with a twenty-round magazine. With luck, Halovic thought grimly, none of their personal weapons would prove necessary. The park had been empty at this time and in similar weather on previous days.
Besides his sidearm, the Bosnian also carried a small walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. It was tuned to National Airport’s Air Traffic Control frequency, but right now it wasn’t producing much beyond static and the occasional squawk. Yassine had a larger tactical radio with better reception up front, and he wore headphones that helped cut out background noise. His radio was tuned to the same frequency.
Halovic laid a hand on the two long green tubes propped up against the seat beside him. He stroked the cold metal appreciatively. These were the real reason they were here.
He shifted slightly and checked his watch. This was ordinarily a busy time for the airport as the early morning flights from all over the country began arriving with planeloads of families bent on touring their nation’s capital, government workers on assignment, and lobbyists determined to shape laws for their clients. The timetable for this mission was fairly precise—molded by the minimum intervals between incoming flights and their scheduled arrival times. But Halovic also knew that the vagaries of weather and mechanical malfunction could throw the timetable off.
That was why he’d kept the plan simple.
Yassine looked up sharply, with one hand held to his headphones. He glanced into the back seat. “We have one! He just turned on to final.” The Palestinian quickly craned his head, scanning the area around them again. “All clear!”
Halovic nodded and slid the Econoline’s side door open. He hopped out onto the asphalt and pulled first one and then the other of the shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles off the seat. They weighed more than thirty pounds apiece. Nizrahim scooted out beside him as soon as the way was clear. Each man grabbed a tube and sprinted toward the water’s edge.
Halovic’s walkie-talkie came to life. This time he heard a fragment of the air traffic controller’s conversation through the static. “Roger, Northwest Flight Three-Five-Two. We have you four miles north and west. You’re cleared for Runway One-Eight …”
Barely two minutes out from the airport, the Bosnian realized, mentally calculating the incoming jetliner’s position and likely bearing. He thumbed a safety switch on the missile launcher. It took about five seconds for the nitrogen in a small sphere to cool the missile’s infrared seeker. He was rewarded with a low buzzing growl from the weapon as he ran. The system was ready to fire.
The Bosnian and his Iranian subordinate reached the shore in seconds, only slightly winded by their short dash.
Halovic searched the sky rapidly. Nothing. He turned more to his front and relaxed as he saw the bright red plane there, hanging in the air against the tall skyscrapers of the urban northern Virginia skyline.
Northwest Flight 352
Northwest Airlines Flight 352 was a Boeing 757, a twin-jet airliner with a crew of nine and more than one hundred passengers aboard. Captain Jim Freeman, the senior pilot, had been in the air almost six hours since starting his day in Denver. His red-eye flight had landed in Minneapolis–St. Paul for a one-hour stop before continuing on to Washington, D.C.
So far the weather had been fair and the flying without incident. Now Freeman knew he had only the always difficult landing ahead before calling it quits for the day. He was scheduled to take another flight out to Detroit early the next morning.
National Airport lay on the western side of the Potomac River, just south of the center of the District of Columbia. Because of the many sensitive and historic sites in the capital city, jetliners approaching from the west flew first over the northern Virginia suburbs near Tysons Corner before swinging southeast toward the capital city. Just over the Georgetown Reservoir they always made a sharp turn south to follow the Potomac in a slow, winding approach that taxed any pilot’s skill.
Freeman kept both eyes and all his attention on the job at hand while his copilot, Susan Lewis, ran through the landing checklist. He was a former Navy attack pilot, and right now he missed the heads-up displays and sophisticated electronics of frontline military aircraft. Putting the 757 down safely on one of National’s notoriously short runways required a precision juggling act involving altitude, speed, and distance.
Getting something that goes very fast to slow down safely and quickly is a delicate task. While a Boeing 757 cruised at 450 knots, its approach speed was only 130 knots—just above stall speed. Any loss of power, any maneuver that slowed the plane too much, would drop it right out of the sky.
Add to this low altitude. Any problem in the air usually means losing altitude, so height gives a pilot time to act. But Freeman’s aircraft, caught in the landing pattern, was only a thousand feet up.
Three miles out from National Airport, Northwest Flight 352 was low and slow.
Along the Potomac
Sefer Halovic had spotted the passenger jet when it was almost abreast of him, passing from right to left. Now he raised the SAM launcher to his shoulder and pressed his eye against the sight.
The Boeing 757 leaped into view. The Bosnian knew he had only seconds to fire. The missile had a decent range, but when fired from behind, its effective range dropped because it was chasing the target.
He held the airliner in the center of the crosshairs and heard a buzz from a small speaker in the sight. The buzz became stronger and higher-pitched, verifying that the missile seeker had locked onto the 757’s heat signature.
Halovic fought the urge to pull the trigger instantly. Instead he pressed a switch that “uncaged” the heat seeker. Now the infrared sensor would pivot freely inside the missile’s nose, and he didn’t have to hold the missile precisely on target.
He angled the SAM launcher upward at the nearly forty-five-degree angle needed to make sure the missile cleared the ground after firing. The buzz continued. At last, sure that the seeker still had a solid lock on the airliner, he pulled the trigger.
A dense, choking cloud of gray and white smoke enveloped him, and the echoing roar made by the rocket tearing skyward seemed incredibly loud—more appropriate for a battlefield than a peaceful park. Through the clearing smoke, h
e looked for Nizrahim and saw the Iranian also sighting on the airliner, still as a statue.
Nizrahim’s finger twitched, and he, too, disappeared in a thick acrid cloud. The second SAM streaked aloft—a small bright dot at the end of a curving white smoke trail.
Halovic’s own missile was already closing on the lumbering airliner.
NATO designated the shoulder-fired, heat-seeking SAMs they were using as SA-16s. The Russians who had designed the system called it the Igla-1, the Needle.
The missiles used in this attack were manufactured by the North Koreans, not the Russians. Iran had bought Igla-1s and training equipment from the Russians for its Army, but those purchases were aboveboard and easily traced. The North Koreans, experts at selling arms to nations who valued their privacy, had exported others to the war-torn Balkans. And once in that chaotic region, Taleh’s agents had found it easy to covertly appropriate one of the shipments intended for the Bosnian Serbs.
Little more than a four-foot tube with an attached sight and grip, the Igla-1 was a popular design. It had first entered Russian service in the early 1980s and was a great improvement over earlier shoulder-fired SAMs. The missile could attack a target from any angle, and its seeker was sophisticated enough to ignore some early forms of IR jamming and decoy flares. The weapon’s chief flaw was its small warhead, just a few pounds of high-explosive, but Iglas had shot down coalition warplanes during DESERT STORM and NATO attack aircraft in the Balkans.
Compared to a wildly maneuvering military jet, an undefended passenger airliner flying straight and slow made a perfect target.
Halovic stood motionless, still holding the now-useless missile launcher. By rights, he and Nizrahim should be back in the van, speeding away from the scene. This waiting was foolish—even dangerous.
But he had to stay. He had to know if the missiles worked. He had been trained well enough to know how many ways the weapon could fail. And so, like two children watching a model plane fly for the first time, Halovic and Nizrahim stood, immobile, watching their SAMs arcing in for the kill.
