All the other squadrons had already flown aboard. Unlike the carrier’s other squadrons, the Blues knew they were just passengers, just riding the ship like a ferry. But if the truth were known, they were all excited to be there. There was nothing like flying a jet fighter aboard a moving aircraft carrier. It was something they held in common with only a few people in the world. It could be described, photographed, filmed, and written about, but nothing was the same as experiencing the force of a catapult shot or an arrested landing. It was a fraternity.
The Blue Angels were flying thirty-six inches apart at three hundred fifty knots as they approached the stern of the Truman at eight hundred feet, the break altitude for all visual carrier approaches. Hundreds crowded on the bow of the carrier deck among the planes parked there, inches apart, away from the landing area. Numerous others stood on Vultures Row behind the flag bridge or on the signal bridge, all hoping for something different. Every one of them had seen hundreds of F/A-18 landings, but none of them had seen a Blue Angel land on a carrier, let alone all six come into the break at once. Everyone hoped they would do something different, not just cruise into the break and turn downwind like every other airplane that came aboard every day. This was the Blues. They owed it to the world to live on the edge of aviation risk, to dazzle with their precision and make the difficult look routine. At the very least, they had to do something different. Those on the carrier smiled up at the sparkling blue jets. Everyone noticed that the formation was opposite the normal formation approaching the break. The second and third planes were always to the right of the lead, so that when the lead broke to the left and turned downwind, they could follow easily. If the wingmen were to the lead’s left, as the Blues had it, the lead couldn’t break left. They had something up their sleeve.
The carrier steamed at a leisurely fifteen knots into the wind. The fifteen knots of wind blowing over the ocean gave them the thirty knots of wind down the deck they needed to land the jets.
The Blue Angels passed the bow of the carrier. The Boss looked down to his left and, with a clear nod to number two, pushed his stick to the right and started a right-hand roll. He kept rolling until he was completely upside down, and he kept rolling a full two hundred seventy degrees, leaving him directly below the other Blues and in a hard left-hand turn relative to them and the ship. Number two followed the Boss in the dramatic, beautiful, and illegal “tuck-under break” and executed it perfectly, following the Boss at a perfect four-second interval. The other four planes followed precisely, giving those on the carrier a beautiful show of grace and precision.
Stovic was last, and kept exactly the same spacing between his airplane and the other Blues as they turned downwind. He lowered his landing gear and flaps, ensured his tailhook was down, and continued his left turn into the groove. He watched the meatball on the left side of the carrier—the landing lens that showed him where his airplane was on the glide slope. He landed hard in the middle of the deck, grabbed a two wire, and felt the familiar tug of the arresting gear stop him even though his throttles were full forward and the engines were pulling as hard as they could. He reduced throttle, raised his tailhook, folded his wings, and taxied off the landing area.
He was thrilled to be back aboard the carrier. He had completed two Mediterranean cruises on this ship, and it felt more like home to him than his own house did, particularly his new house in Pensacola, where he had spent a total of thirty days since buying it. As he taxied forward carefully at the direction of the yellow shirt, he thought of the empty house and his wife and children being kept somewhere by the FBI. It gave him no comfort at all.
Stovic opened his canopy and climbed down to the deck. “Welcome back to the Truman, sir,” the plane captain said grinning.
“Great to be here. Thanks for looking out for our jets.”
“To be honest, sir, we’re pretty excited to have the Blue Angels aboard here at all.”
“We are looking forward to being in Paris, I must admit. And going to sea for a week can’t be that bad, can it?”
A Lieutenant approached Stovic standing by his airplane and extended his hand. Stovic took it and spoke first. “Morning. Ed Stovic.”
“John Kresner. Let me show you down to the ready room. We’ll store your gear, then show you to your stateroom.”
“Thanks. What’s the movie for tonight?”
* * *
Rat strolled casually through the 18th Arrondisement, looking lost. He wore a Jacksonville Jaguars baseball cap and carried an Eyewitness guide to Paris in his hand. He looked like a goofy American tourist. He stopped to examine an old building before turning and walking into his hotel and up the three flights of stairs to his room, which overlooked the main street in the area. He checked his watch, looked around the hallway that surrounded the steel-cage-enclosed elevator, and went into his room.
He closed the door without turning on the light and crossed to the window. He removed his hat and tossed it on the bed. The curtains were old and dusty. He pushed them aside to peer out the window. The street below was full of pedestrians. He could hear North African music. He looked for releases on the window, which had old glass that distorted the images outside. He raised the window and stepped back from the opening. The music and noise flooded into his room. He watched the people on the street through his high-powered low-light binoculars. There was a soft knock at the door.
Rat looked at the bank of monitors in the long trunk sitting on his single bed. He saw who his visitor was. He closed the trunk and crossed to the door. “Who is it?”
“Air France. With your other luggage.”
Rat opened the door to see a large man with thick eyebrows carrying a large trunk. “Come on in,” he said.
“We apologize for losing your luggage, sir,” the man said slightly loudly in English with a heavy French accent.
Rat closed the door behind him as the man set the trunk down in the middle of the floor. He spoke quietly. “Did you have any trouble?”
The man glanced around the room and up at the ceiling. “No. Do you have the money?”
“Yes. Let’s have the keys.”
The man handed him some keys dangling from a small key ring. “Help yourself.”
Rat knelt down in front of the trunk, unlocked it, and lifted the top back. It was tightly packed with foam rubber. Under the foam was a large silver case with a handle. Rat lifted the case out and crossed to the bed. The case had two latches on the ends and two on the side by the handle. He opened all four latches and threw open the case. The blue metal barrel of the rifle looked sinister in the low light. The enormous scope sat in its own foam cutout above the rifle itself. Rat took the pieces out and quickly assembled the Barrett semiautomatic .50 caliber sniper rifle. He held it, felt its balance, slid the scope into place, and turned on the night vision. He clicked off the scope and placed the rifle gently on the bed, with the flash suppressor resting on the pillow.
Rat nodded and went back to the trunk. He pulled out several small cases and inspected the contents of each one. He turned to the man. “It’s all here. Any trouble?”
“Not much. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Rat took a wad of hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket and handed it to the man. “Here. Count it.”
“No need,” the man replied, stuffing the wad into his pocket.
Rat took a 9-millimeter Beretta handgun out of its case, checked the bullets in the clip, and rammed the clip into the handle. He pulled the slide back to chamber a round, ensured the safety was on, and slid the Beretta into his belt. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
“Likewise.”
The large man in the Air France uniform let himself out the door. He said loudly as he left, for those who might be listening, “Let me know if you have any other problems, sir. Air France will make sure you are taken care of.”
“Thanks,” Rat said, shutting the door behind him. He took out a small cell phone, one of several he had with him, and dialed. It was a
digital phone with an encrypted signal that had been sent to him by an old friend.
A man answered. “Oui, allo?”
“Jean,” Rat said.
“Oui?” he replied.
“It’s Rat.”
He switched to English. “Ah, you have arrived.”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else know you’re here?”
“No. Did you tell anyone?”
“Only those you specified. So don’t do anything stupid.”
“Never. Any scent yet of these guys?”
“Nothing really. We have one man who is Algerian. He heard of some men needing someone for a short time. Some kind of warehouse work. He answered, and we haven’t heard from him, which means they haven’t let him go since talking to him. They are protecting themselves by never letting him out of their sight. If he has stumbled into them and is able to break free, we may get some intelligence from him, but I am not expecting it.”
“Good. I’ve got a couple of things in the works. Probably be a large American presence here in time, but I’m it right now. Let me know if you need me.”
“Yes, of course.” Jean Marcel hung up.
* * *
Ed Stovic walked into the ready room of the VFA-37, the Ragin’ Bulls, the squadron he had left a few months before to become a Blue Angel, and tossed his helmet bag on the ready-room chair. It was as if he’d never left. He glanced over at his chair, the one in which he had been sitting watching a movie when the word came that they wanted him on the Today show. He had swollen up so big with pride he could hardly get out of the chair. He had tried not to smile or look as if it mattered, but right then he knew his life was going to change. As he looked at the chair now, he wished he could have that moment back and do it over again. He would choose the inconspicuous life. The standard, anonymous life of a family man who complained about going to sea too much. He wished he had the whole flight back, the whole shoot-down, everything. He had learned too much about himself, things he wished he hadn’t discovered.
The pilots who had just flown aboard were filling out their maintenance sheets and talking excitedly as the Truman plowed through the Atlantic heading due east. The Blue Angels stood out like flamingos. Their flight suits were royal blue with yellow stripes and had their names and airplane numbers embroidered on their left breast. They looked their usual spit-polish-all-American perfect. The other F/A-18 pilots had the standard Navy pilot look—olive green Nomex flight suits, black or dark brown scuffed flight boots, various patches representing their squadron, and a blue T-shirt representing their squadron’s color underneath the flight suit. The Blue Angels felt at home in spite of their obviousness. Every one of them—except Hoop, the Marine—had spent years at sea. The Ragin’ Bulls continued to steal glances at their guests.
The commanding officer of the Ragin’ Bulls was still Commander Pete Bruno. He was excited to have the Blues as part of his ready room for the week. The Boss, who’d been talking with him since they first entered the ready room, finally said, “I’d like to talk to you about something specific when we get a chance.”
Bruno glanced at the flight schedule for the rest of the day and determined he was not flying again until the night launch. “Sure. Anytime. My next brief is at 1700. What’s it about?” he asked.
“I may need to . . . borrow some things from your squadron.”
Bruno was surprised. “Like what?”
“I was trying to get something requisitioned before we left. They didn’t have time to fill it. They said they’d try to get them aboard ship, but frankly, I don’t believe they will.”
By now Bruno was confused. “What are you talking about?”
The Boss spoke softly. “Flares.”
“Pencil flares? Survival jacket flares?”
“No. For the airplanes.”
Bruno screwed up his face. “What the hell would you need flares for?”
“We’ve got a pretty focused threat we have to be ready for. We need to load the blue jets with flares for the Paris Air Show.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“No, I’m not.”
The maintenance chief grabbed Bruno’s arm and asked for his decision on a detail of plane maintenance as another airplane slammed onto the steel deck above their heads, catching a three wire and pulling it out loudly through the deck from the landing gear machine just a few feet away from the Ragin’ Bulls ready room. Bruno gave him an answer and returned his attention to the Boss. “Why don’t you just cancel the show?”
“Not happening.”
“Anything else?”
“They’re shutting the Blues down after this season.”
“What?”
“This is our last season.”
“Who made that decision?”
“The same people who will be in Paris to see the first air show demonstration of the Joint Strike Fighter—the plane that just ate the entire Blue Angels budget, without even a belch.”
Bruno nodded with complete understanding. “I’ll make sure you get the flares.”
Bruno looked over his shoulder at the squadron duty officer sitting at his desk in the middle of the ready room. “Hey, Washboard!” he yelled to him. Washboard was so called because he was fifteen or more pounds overweight, mostly in his belly. It was a reference to the washboard abs that no doubt existed somewhere underneath his layer of insulation.
“Yes, sir?”
“Got the movie list? Captain McMahon of the Blue Angels will be selecting our movie for tonight.”
“Got it right here,” he said as he handed the list to the Boss.
* * *
Ismael had expected to arrive in Paris full of confidence and anxious to complete his task. Many of the instructors in Khartoum were convinced that the Blue Angels flying at the Paris Air Show was a trap. They found it very curious that the Blue Angels had changed their schedule after he had become known to them, to fly in a place where they had never flown before, a place that was known to have the largest Algerian community outside of Algeria.
They told Ismael that Western intelligence would be waiting for him. Any misstep would result in his death and the failure of the entire operation.
When Ismael arrived in Paris by airplane from Athens, he went straight to the room that had been prearranged for him with an Algerian family. It was over their restaurant, a crowded, noisy restaurant with hundreds of Algerians walking in and out all day and deep into the night.
The night they arrived in Paris, Madani introduced Ismael to someone he had talked about on the way to France—Hafiz. He described him as clever and wise and impossible to fool. It was quite a shock when Ismael first saw him. He clearly slept on the street. His hair was matted and hung in a haphazard style. He had a wispy beard and cold eyes.
Madani had seen the look on Ismael’s face. “He is our eyes and ears. Nothing gets by him. He is also able to look like anything he wants, even a professional football player if he is cleaned up. And he was born here.” His French was perfect, and he had no North African accent.
Ismael hadn’t gone out since their arrival. He had taken Salam’s warning to heart. He took all his meals downstairs, hunched over a table facing a wall. He didn’t want to meet anyone or see anyone or be seen. He knew the Americans were looking for him.
Madani knocked on Ismael’s door.
“Oui?”
“It’s me.”
Ismael pulled the door open, and Madani closed it behind them. “How are you doing?” Madani asked, quickly surveying the room.
“Well,” Ismael responded.
“Come with me.”
They walked down the back stairs of the building to a busy street in the middle of the Algerian quarter. Men smoked in small groups crouched on the sidewalk or on small stools. Ismael and Madani headed straight for the Metro stop and descended the stairs. They took the Metro all the way to the end of the line. They walked through a quiet neighborhood to a small building that had a steel garage door that was padlo
cked. Madani knocked gently on the door three times, then walked around the block to an identical door in the back of the long building. He again knocked three times. He could hear a door being opened from the inside next to the garage door. A boy not more than twelve years old emerged, looked at the two men, nodded, and backed into the dark doorway, gesturing for them to follow him. Madani went in. Ismael looked up and down the dark street and followed him.
The boy closed the door, threw the bolt closed, and padlocked it. They followed him up a steep stairway to a set of offices above the small warehouse. Ismael looked down as they climbed and noticed two delivery trucks, the kind that could pass for a baker’s truck, or a plumber’s truck or work vans. They reached the top of the stairs and were ushered into a brightly lit office with two desks. Two men sat in chairs; the others either sat on the edge of the desks or leaned against the wall. They had obviously been waiting. The tallest of the group stood and embraced Madani. Madani introduced Ismael, and the other man introduced the rest of the group to both of them.
Madani spoke to the tall man. “Have they arrived?”
“Yes. You have our money?”
Madani removed an envelope from inside his leather jacket. He handed it to the man, who counted out thousands of French francs. The man nodded and placed them in his own jacket pocket. “Do you want to inspect them?”
“Of course.”
“Downstairs in the two vans. Two boxes in each van. Take your choice.”
Madani turned quickly and headed down the stairs. Ismael followed closely behind him, and the others behind him. Their footsteps echoed loudly on the stairs. The tall man walked quickly to the back of one of the vans and pulled the door open. It rolled up and disappeared into the top of the van. He climbed into the back of it and pulled the handle on a large box, dragging it to the door. It was roughly made but solid. It had several hinges on one side and four latches on the other with a large lock in the center. He unlocked the lid and pushed it back. Between the lid and the weapon was a perfectly flat head of foam. He pulled it up and exposed the olive drab SA-7, Strela-2 Russian-made surface-to-air missile. Madani quickly pulled it out of its box. He placed it on his shoulder, threw two switches, and stimulated the electric battery, which started with a high-pitched whine. He stepped back from the van and looked through the eyepiece. The missile launcher was four feet long, eighteen inches of which was in front of the shoulder. A viewfinder rotated up in front of his eye. He looked through it into the darkest part of the garage and waited for the battery to activate the seekerhead. He began aiming at various things around the warehouse, like the warm engine of the van in which the missile had been transported. He attached small headphones to his ears and listened carefully. He heard a faint, hesitant growl in the missile seekerhead. He looked up toward the office from which they had just come, toward another man standing at the top of the stairs smoking a cigarette. The surface-to-air missile growled hungrily at the cigarette. Madani smiled. He reached up and flipped the switch, turning the missile off. He took it off his shoulder and rested it on the base of the truck again as he stared down the barrel of the weapon. “Flashlight,” he demanded of the others. A man produced a Mini Maglight. He turned it on and shone it down the barrel. He could see the missile sitting exactly where it belonged inside the firing tube. He turned the missile around and looked at the exhaust section, noting that the paint was intact. This too had never been used before. “Perfect,” he said. “I must examine all of them.”
The Shadows of Power Page 24
