“No. Nothing to it.”
“I want to send one to Admiral Hooker as well. What if he doesn’t have the software?”
“I can imbed the software in the e-mail you want to send to him, as well as the execution file to make it all operate right. Sounds like you have somebody else in mind too.”
“Mr. Rathman.”
“He’s got to be chasing people around over there. Think he can get an e-mail?”
“He can get these e-mails on his phone.”
Walker was surprised. “So what’s the plan?”
“I want to give them some instructions. Contingency instructions, in case things don’t work the way everyone seems to think they will go.” She stared at the brightly lit Washington Monument in the dark night. “Do you have your laptop with you?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s start drafting.”
* * *
The Police Nationale had people on nearly every street and corner in Paris. They weren’t looking for pedestrians anymore. They had specific vehicles they were looking for, if their information was accurate. Their orders were clear, and they expected any encounter to end violently.
Anouar, the man who had replaced Ismael, also had clear orders. He was to drive around Paris cautiously. Other than at traffic lights he was not to stop at all. He would continue driving through the morning, and as 2:00 P.M. approached, he was to drive to Le Bourget airport, wait until the Blue Angels were overhead and broke up in their fleur de lis maneuver, one of the last things they would do, turn on the Stinger, on which he had received training, and at the right moment, open the rear doors, step out, and fire.
Anouar had never been to Paris before but had a good map and was confident he could complete his mission. Salam had never shown so much confidence in him before. He had never even been trusted to take on a mission outside the country, let alone one where he was to operate by himself. And to take on the Americans was a demonstration of trust in him that he had never expected. It could only mean good things for his future with Salam.
He was tired but excited. The van drove nicely, and no one paid any attention to him at all. He had found a very long street, a four-lane road that went for ten kilometers without any major turns. Rather than get lost in some of the difficult areas of Paris, he had decided to drive up and down on the boulevard, one way, then the other, until it was time, then out to the airport. No way to get lost.
He turned and drove back the other way, checking the fuel and engine instruments. Everything was perfect.
The French operator of the Mini-Mart had been up all night. He looked up from Le Monde and saw the black plumbing van make another U-turn along the quiet boulevard. The man frowned. Was that the third U-turn? Fourth? And what is a plumbing van doing out on a Sunday morning at 6:00 a.m.? Something not quite right about it. He picked up the phone. His call went to the Paris police, who quickly routed the call to the national police. They had been waiting for such a call. They asked for the description and location of the van. It was all they needed.
It was twenty minutes before they could get there, but they quickly spotted the black plumbing van driving at exactly the speed limit on the wide boulevard. Two police cars and a van were routed ahead of the van by several blocks. They turned onto the boulevard heading in the same direction and watched the van behind them in their mirrors. Two police vehicles and another van full of men approached from the rear. One was sent ahead to stop it.
The Police Peugeot turned on its blue lights and closed to thirty feet behind the van.
Anouar saw the blue lights reflecting in his mirror. He nearly panicked. He had done nothing to bring attention to himself. This must just be a routine traffic stop. If he stayed cool, nothing would happen. He would show them his papers, and all would be well.
He pulled over to the side of the road and came to a gentle stop. The police car stopped behind him, and suddenly a second car shot around him and pulled in front of him, pointing in toward the curb, blocking his way. His heart began to beat furiously. He was running out of options. He glanced at the assault rifle on the floor beside him. It was ready to fire, but he knew that if he had to use it, his chances of escape were nil.
The man wearing the blue uniform of the Police Nationale approached his window. Anouar lowered it with the handle, taking a good long time. The sun was near the horizon, and it was easy to see. The policeman looked at him carefully and spoke to him in French. “Driver’s license.”
Anouar didn’t speak French. He said in Arabic, “What do you want? I don’t speak French. I need to go.”
Suddenly a second gendarme stuck his head in front of the first and yelled at him in Arabic. “Keep your hands on the wheel! What is your name?”
He was shocked to hear Arabic. He had expected to be able to use the lack of communication as his reason for not giving them any information. “Yes, yes,” he said, putting his hands on the wheel. He inched his heel over toward the accelerator as his foot held the brake.
“Give me your license!”
Anouar put his hand up, showing it was empty, and began reaching slowly for the papers in his pocket. He handed his Uzbek driver’s license to the gendarme.
“What are you doing, driving up and down the boulevard? Where are you going?”
“I am looking for the building where I am supposed to work this morning. I cannot find it.”
“What is the number?”
He tried to remember some numbers he had seen on the road and choose one somewhere in the middle. If he gave him a number that was nowhere on the road, they would know he was lying. “One three four zero.”
“What work?”
“Install a new water heater. Their water heater broke Friday, and they are desperate. Sunday costs three times what this would cost during the week. They didn’t care. They said come Sunday morning.”
The policeman had a grizzled face and a mean disposition. “At five in the morning?”
“It is not five,” he said, trying to smile.
“No, but you have been driving up and down this road since five have you not?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to be late.”
“Get out of the van,” the policeman said suddenly, pulling on the door handle. It was locked.
“What are you doing?” Anouar cried. “Leave me alone!”
“Out!”
Anouar froze. He didn’t know what to do. If he reached for his weapon he would be too slow, and it was too confined to point an AK-47 at the policeman. He rammed his foot onto the accelerator and let out the clutch at the same time. The van shot forward, slamming into the small car in front of him. He drove it to the left, pushing its nose away from the curb as the tires on his van smoked under the torque of the engine and the resistance of the police car. He broke free and drove up onto the curb, around the police car, and down the boulevard.
The two policemen ran back to their car as the police van raced around them. They got on the radio. Several more cars raced to the scene but were minutes away. The two in front of Anouar’s plumbing van pulled across the boulevard, blocking the two lanes between them and the racing van. The four men got out of their cars with machine guns and shotguns.
Anouar saw them and saw that his way was blocked ahead and behind. He had only one chance. He drove up on the grassy median, between two large trees, and into the oncoming lanes. Traffic was light, and no cars were in his way.
The four national police who were waiting for him ran across the median and pointed their weapons at him. Anouar saw them, ensured he was pointed straight down the road, and leaned over below the dash. Bullets crashed through the windshield, scattering glass all over his neck and hair. He could hear shotgun blasts slamming into the fender and hood and felt the van jerk to the right as his right front tire was shot out. He felt the bullets and pellets hitting the van to his right, then behind him. He sat up, corrected his line, and continued down the road into the traffic. It was difficult to hold the van straight with a bl
own tire in the front, but he could do it with effort. At an intersection he crossed back over to the right side of the road, but by now the police van was right behind him.
A red light lit up on his indicator panel. The engine temperature was getting dangerously high. One of the bullets must have pierced a hose. He cursed and looked for a road to turn down. He had to find another vehicle. The blue van was right behind him.
He slowed to turn. It was the chance the police had been waiting for. The van skidded to a halt, and a man in the front jumped out with a semiautomatic shotgun. He pumped shell after shell low into the van, aiming for the wheels, the tires, the brake lines, the exhaust system, the transmission—anything that would stop the van. Shot after shot sent hundreds of pellets into the van and the pavement below as the crippled van tried to negotiate the sharp turn without turning over.
The left rear wheel suddenly gave way and folded over, coming completely off the axle. Sparks shot out as the metal scraped along the asphalt and the van ground to a halt.
Anouar grabbed the AK-47 and jumped out. He headed for an alleyway as bullets cracked into the stone buildings on either side of him. He looked over his shoulder and saw eight or nine men pursuing him with automatic weapons. He reached the corner, shifted the AK to his left hand, and began returning fire in the full automatic mode. He had two clips for his AK, one that was loaded and a second taped to the first. When the first was empty, he needed only to pull it out, turn it over, and insert the second.
He aimed at the running men and was hit by dozens of 9-millimeter bullets. He spun around the corner of the building and fell to the ground mortally wounded.
The police came to the corner of the alley, covered each other carefully, entered the darkness, and found Anouar lying in a pool of blood.
“Should we get an ambulance?”
“No,” said the Arabic-speaking policeman. “He is finished.”
“Guy!” another yelled from the back of the van.
He turned.
“Come see this! It looks like a shoulder-fired missile. The writing is in English!”
The French continued to arrest every known Algerian troublemaker and even many of whom they were simply suspicious while they scoured the city for the remaining vans from the Algerian team. There were loud complaints of mistreatment and brutality. As the time approached, the security noose closed around the entire city. Security was everywhere, in a depth and thoroughness that impressed the Americans. At its center, as the Blue Angels readied to head to Le Bourget, French Police Nationale surrounded the Americans, two to each Blue Angel, like personal body guards or the Secret Service. They had machine guns and vests and were deadly earnest.
The entire street and circling driveway in front of the hotel were lined with armed Police Nationale, some in regular uniform, many in much more serious gear, with automatic weapons and obvious bulletproof vests. The route to Le Bourget had been revised since the journey on Friday.
The Blue Angels gathered in the lobby in their royal blue flight suits with their khaki caps pulled down to their eyebrows. The time for their show had been moved up. Several other performers had canceled when they learned what had caused so much additional security. Without prior notice, the Emergency Committee changed the order of the air show participants, and the Blues were now scheduled to fly at 10:00 a.m.
Outside the lobby of the hotel the Peugeots waited in a line. They were different models and colors than on Friday. They had been inspected for problems and bombs and had been watched every second since.
The Boss checked to make sure everyone was ready, checked his watch, and nodded to the lead policeman, who was treating the American pilots like heads of state. He didn’t want anyone to even get close to them.
Animal climbed into the black Peugeot where Oden was waiting. Neither spoke. The line began to move, and the French police led the way as the caravan snaked through the narrow streets, feeling exposed and vulnerable. The sirens screamed and the lights flashed as they made their way toward the freeway on their way to Le Bourget.
Oden looked over at Stovic, who was staring out the window to the side. “You ready?”
“Sure,” Stovic replied quickly.
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled for us, Animal. I’ll make sure nothing happens to us.”
Stovic sensed a certain camaraderie from Oden that he hadn’t often felt before. Maybe he just felt sorry for his friend. Stovic replied, “If they actually get a shot off, you’ll probably see it before me. It’ll probably come from behind me. Just yell flares, and I’ll dump my whole load. We’ll light up the air show like it’s Christmas.”
“Shit, Animal. We can’t do that,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because then the spectators will love it, and they’ll want us to do the flare thing at all our shows.”
Stovic forced a smile. “If you wanted to get an airplane with a shoulder-fired missile, is there any doubt in your mind you could get the missile off?”
“No.” Oden knew he could. He knew the Algerian could too if he was determined and careful. But he still hoped that with the security in place, there would be enough notice to keep him from succeeding.
The Blue Angels wheeled onto the airfield through the main access road but turned off before reaching the terminal. The lead police vehicle led them down an unmarked road toward the operations building at the airfield. The air show was well under way.
The Blue Angels filed into the briefing room. A large mahogany table dominated the conference room, and snacks and pastries lay on a side table against the paneled wall. It was such a beautiful room the Blue Angels found themselves speaking in subdued tones. What was usually an enjoyable time, if not exactly full of levity, was tempered by the two FBI agents sitting in on the brief; not VIPs interested in the Blue Angels, not local dignitaries the Navy was trying to impress, but two federal officers trying to keep them from getting killed, Lew and Patricia, who felt like small dogs trapped on a freeway, dashing around and not accomplishing much, with disaster always just around the corner.
Several Blue Angels drew coffee from the urn and sat in their usual places. They were doing their best to make it feel like another ordinary air show. Routine. They were all very aware of the swirl of security around them and the anxiety that dominated everyone’s thinking, but they tried to pretend it wasn’t there.
Exactly on time the Boss began the brief. He worked very hard to stay normal. With so much attention being paid to security, with the subtle way security concerns were dominating the thinking of his pilots, he knew he had to conduct a brief that refocused them on the flight before them. If they continued to be distracted, they might risk more from an accident than from any terrorist. “Good morning,” he began.
“Good morning, Boss,” they replied in unison, leaning over the most recent aerial photo of the airport, which they had memorized, seeing all the landmarks and their orientation to the runway.
“It’s a beautiful day for flying. We’re scheduled for a 1000 takeoff. Earlier than usual, but not unusual for us in winter training. Just think of this as our first flight in El Centro.”
The pilots smiled, remembering the beautiful days of desert flying and the quaint concerns about precision flying and Mexican food.
The Boss continued the brief. “Okay. We’re parked in reverse order for a remote reverse walk-down. We’ll crank ‘em up on eight, nine, and eighteen, take off checks in the chocks.
“It’ll be a left ninety out of the chocks and go wingman clear of the parking.
“Take the runway for the covered wagon. When Bean’s ready we’ll go sixteen, comm two. We’ll be cleared for takeoff with a wind check. Check parking brake is off.
“Maneuvers for the diamond. We’ll go a diamond burner loop with a right turn out, followed by Oden’s dirty roll on takeoff and Animal’s low-transition, high performance climb to split-S.”
The Boss then began to run them through the entire routine with the same calls as if t
hey were actually flying. The pilots leaned back. Most closed their eyes and fell into a sort of trancelike state. The Boss assumed the same croaky singsong voice he used on the radio. “Power, burners . . . ready . . . now, power . . . set, gear. Up . . . we . . . go . . . a lit-tle . . . more . . . pull . . . burners ready . . . now . . . easing the pull . . . easing the power . . . easing more power . . . boards . . . smoke off . . . now. Come . . . uz . . . a . . . pull. . . .”
With their eyes still closed, the pilots moved their hands as if they were holding the sticks in their jets, moving them back and forth as if they were flying through each maneuver, visualizing it as the Boss talked them through it. One maneuver after the other for the entire air show.
Stovic kept his eyes closed, flying his F/A-18 in his mind, closer than he had ever come to Oden on the passes, smoother than he had ever felt on the pull-ups and turns. It was a ballet, all the way to the break, when the Blue Angels were about to land. . . .
The door opened loudly, breaking the atmosphere and the rule against interrupting the brief. The Boss stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked angrily at the intruder. It was Admiral Hooker. He knew no one was to intrude on the brief, but there was something he had to say. “Boss, sorry. Sorry guys,” he said to the rest of the team, raising a hand in apology. Hooker was in his dress blues and looked handsome but drained. His face didn’t have the usual tennis-tan-all-is-well look. “I am really sorry to interrupt your brief. I know how sacred a time it is. But this is important.”
The Boss sat back, looked around the table, and put his hand up to indicate the brief was on hold. “What is it, Admiral?”
“I’ve received word from Washington. Frankly, I’m glad. I was up all night imagining how horrible this could be if these terrorists got through. If they actually shot down one of you . . . it would be catastrophic. More catastrophic to the Navy than losing the Blue Angels would be. Sorry.” He walked slowly behind three of the Blue Angels who weren’t looking at him. “It was my idea for you to come over here.” He smiled ironically. “And that is the very thing that probably put you in the greatest danger. We were closing in on this maniac in the States, I’m told. Well, Washington, from the highest authority, has told us to cancel the air show. Not only the Blues, but also the JSF, which was to fly right before you. The whole reason we came over here,” he said with an annoying smile full of relief.
The Shadows of Power Page 33
