by Oliver North
At 0845, White House Counsel Larry Walsh delivered the Capture/Kill order for Caperton, complete with the signatures of Acting FBI Director Keker, the Attorney General, and Stanley Turner, the DNI. The chief of staff looked at Walsh, who simply nodded, and Murad signed the cover memorandum as “Acting National Security Advisor,” sealed it in an envelope marked TOP SECRET—EYES ONLY FOR THE PRESIDENT, and gave it to a WHCA courier for hand-carry to Air Force One in Chicago.
Once the courier departed, Murad closed his door and said to Walsh, “The Air Force is flying him in a T/F-35 to O’Hare. POTUS should have it before she takes off for her afternoon campaign event in Buffalo. Hopefully the veep won’t see it and ask her what it is before she signs it. Stay here so we can recap where we are with Keker.”
Walsh sat and Murad spoke to the digi-cube: “Secure . . . Jon Keker . . . FBI.”
The cube glowed green. When the Acting FBI Director’s face appeared on the screen, Muneer said, “Jon, I’m here with Larry. The Capture/Kill order on Caperton is on the way to POTUS. What’s the latest?”
Keker, looking tense and tired, said, “The people we’ve been tracking in Mexico and Caperton have all gone silent. We haven’t heard anything from any of them since early this morning, so we really don’t know where they are right now.”
“How can that be?” asked Walsh.
“It’s simple,” snapped Keker. “We don’t have any HUMINT. We can track Caperton in real time only if he communicates—and apparently he’s not doing that right now. It takes hours—sometimes a day or more—to ID him on voice pattern analysis when he uses an illegal, unregistered PID, and he apparently has an inexhaustible supply of them. We’re trying to keep a DHS UAV constantly over his place in Montana but we’re not seeing or hearing anything out there other than cows and horses.”
“Well, how about sending some of your agents to his ranch to ask if he’s there,” Murad said sarcastically. “What about that Swiss-owned Gulfstream VII now parked at Merida? Your last report said FAA has verified the aircraft was contracted in the past to do classified work for the USG.”
“That’s correct,” Keker replied with a visible grimace. “We don’t know which agency or agencies have used it yet but we will. Overhead coverage from NGIA shows the suspect G-VII—call sign Big Eye—is still on the ground at Merida International, but there is no movement around it and we can’t seem to get the Mexican authorities to pay attention.”
“Why the devil hasn’t the Mexican government impounded it yet?” asked Murad. “Didn’t we tell ’em it was a suspect drug cartel aircraft?”
“Sure. We told them that last night but we don’t know what the hell’s going on down there right now. Fifteen minutes ago, President Rodriguez sacked his attorney general and then claimed credit for wiping out the leadership of the Federation Cartel in a secret operation last night on the Yucatan Peninsula.”
“What the . . .” exclaimed Walsh. “Is Rodriguez talking about the mercenary unit calling itself ‘Rover’ that was communicating with that Gulfstream by satellite radio last night?”
“We don’t know what Rodriguez is talking about, but he’s going to hold a press conference this afternoon and he’s promising to show proof of ‘foreign interference’ in Mexico. The Federation Cartel’s MESH site in Monterrey admits their number-two kingpin is MIA and they claim to have evidence U.S.-made Hellfire missiles were used to attack Mexican nationals. I talked to Stan Turner a few minutes ago and he can’t get through to anybody down there, either.”
Walsh shook his head and said, “This is not good.”
“Well, that’s not all the bad news,” Keker said. “Our SIU analysts think they now know whose voice that was on A-Jay’s Iridium sat-phone at three fifty-five a.m. last night.”
“Well, who was it?” asked Murad.
“SIU can’t be certain because the number dialed was to an unregistered PID through a MESH node in northern Virginia. Our techs believe it was Admiral Martin Cohen calling his wife.”
The chief of staff and the president’s lawyer looked at each other in stunned silence for a moment before Walsh asked, “Where is she now?”
“We sent DHS agents to the Cohen residence in Arlington over an hour ago but there is nobody there. The neighbors haven’t seen her since yesterday. We’ve put her PERT data up on the Global Watch System but no hits yet. She seems to have disappeared.”
More silence. Then Walsh said, almost to himself, “Who the hell is running this operation against us? Is it the Caliph, the Iranians, who?”
Murad’s response was chilling: “It’s got to be Newman and Caperton. Here’s what we need to do. If Cohen is alive and with this A-Jay character, that Swiss airplane in Mexico needs to be brought down if it launches and attempts to reenter U.S. airspace. I’ll alert the Pentagon. Second, we need Caperton taken out—quickly. Jon, can you have DHS agents raid the Caperton place in Montana tonight?”
Keker was slow to respond but then said, “If the Mexicans let the G-VII launch, the Air Force or the Navy will have to deal with it—preferably over international waters. Since we believe Caperton is at his ranch in Montana, he’s in FBI/DHS jurisdiction—but everyone around here is gun-shy after what happened Sunday night down in South Carolina. I have been reminded several times, ‘If you want it bad, you get it bad.’ I think it would be best to hit Caperton’s place with some MQ-70 Marauder UAVs and then put some agents on the ground for a BDA.”
“How many Marauders do you have available and what’s their armament?” the president’s lawyer asked.
At the White House Murad and Walsh watched on the digicube as Keker consulted another viewscreen and then replied, “Within range of Caperton’s ranch outside Fort Shaw, DHS has eight birds total: two in northeast Washington state, two in Idaho; two more in North Dakota; plus the two birds in Montana we are using for constant stare over Caperton’s place. It says here all of them can be equipped with four Hellfire missiles apiece. I’ll have to check on how long that will take.”
“Good,” said Murad. “Let’s plan on doing as you recommend. Get the ball rolling to arm up every available UAV for a strike tonight on Caperton’s place in Montana. Tell DHS and the Air Force it’s a confirmed Anark-terrorist hideout. I’ll brief the president on this when she gets back from Buffalo this afternoon and get you a green light.”
Keker nodded and said, “Okay, but before these birds can launch missiles on American citizens in U.S. territory, we need her authorization in writing. And remember, if Caperton and Newman are involved, expect the unexpected.”
That turned out to be an understatement.
BACHELOR OFFICERS’ QUARTERS
MEXICAN AIR FORCE BASE #8
MERIDA, MEXICO
MONDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER 2032
0930 HOURS, LOCAL
The fresh tamales A. J. Jones brought for their breakfast were nearly as good as the news he delivered.
Doan summoned his teammates, Admiral Cohen, and the three-man Gulfstream crew to the dining/reception area by bellowing down the hallway, “Listen up, people! Rally on me on the mess deck. Our Tour Guide is here with chow and an update!”
Bruno and Felipe were dispatched to guard the three hooded and shackled detainees and the others filed out of their rooms to gather around the tables. Doan said, “Bow your heads. Coyote, it’s your turn to say the blessing.”
McNaughton did as ordered: “Dear Lord, thank You for this food. We ask that You bless it to our use and us to Your service. And please give us a safe trip home. Amen.”
“Good,” Doan said. “While you all eat, listen up. Tour Guide has some news.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Major. Gentlemen, we have new travel arrangements,” Jones began. “Your guest, Señor Lenin Felix, has offered to fly us to the United States. When he and I were chatting last night he shared with me that he owns Vuelo Mexico—his latest venture in laundering cocaine money into legitimate businesses.
“It turns out he was telling the truth for a change. Vu
elo Mexico has a brand-new Boeing 737 MAX departing here today at ten thirty on a certification flight to Las Vegas, Nevada. Señor Felix had the foresight to place some two hundred fifty million dollars in U.S. currency and gex aboard the aircraft—funds he planned to invest in a casino.
“After talking things over with Sergeant Major Doan and your pilots, I borrowed some of Señor Felix’s cash, purchased appropriate travel attire for you gentlemen, and rented the bus parked outside against the portico. The bus will transport us to the main terminal. It is very important none of you be observed by surveillance cameras or overhead ISR, so stay under the portico while loading the bus. We will offload beneath the terminal overhang. We don’t want anyone here or in Washington testing out their new facial recognition software on us.
“One final note: DEA Special Agent Marcia Quintero and I will be accompanying you on the flight. She is already at the terminal and will use her diplomatic passport to escort us through airport security. She is armed. Her husband is a U.S. Marine officer. She dislikes profane or vulgar language. Sergeant Major, the floor is yours.”
Doan stood and said, “Thank you, sir. Listen up, people. Fingers, KK, and Doc, in the baggage compartment beneath the bus there are three rolled-up carpets, nine rolls of duct tape, twelve duffel bags containing civilian clothes, and ten Pelican cases. Bring ’em in here in that order. Bruno, Newboy, and I will roll and tape the detainees into the carpets. Everyone else change into civvies and stuff your battle gear into the duffels. Put your rifles in the Pelican cases with five loaded magazines apiece. Keep your sidearms on your persons, beneath your clothing.
“Leave the AT-9s, the Hummingbirds, all your grenades, blasting caps, and explosives here in the kitchen. Major Macklin and Felipe are staying here to sanitize this place, then head home to find the kid’s parents. One of Tour Guide’s friends is coming here to drive the other vic for Bruno.
“The rest of us will board the bus at ten hundred hours and proceed to a covered offload point beneath the international terminal. On Special Agent Quintero’s signal we will download our gear plus the three ‘carpets’ onto baggage carts and follow her to an elevator that will take us directly to the jetway for the aircraft. Put all the baggage including the ‘carpets’ into the aircraft cabin with us. We will be the only ones besides the nonhostile, four-man flight crew aboard.
“The aircraft is scheduled to take off at ten thirty. It’s nineteen hundred miles—about a four-hour flight to McCarran International at Las Vegas depending on winds and routing. Once we’re out of Mexican airspace, our pilots will take over in the cockpit. When we land at LAS, we’ll be met by DEA agents who will take the detainees off our hands. Follow-on transportation from there is being arranged and we will be briefed on arrival at LAS. Any questions?”
There were none until they were boarding the bus. Each man filing by Bruno and Felipe exchanged handshakes, shared an abrazo and a mil gracias. But Admiral Cohen said, “You and Felipe saved my life. How can I thank you?”
“Well, sir,” Bruno replied, “since you asked, when the time comes in a few years, you can arrange to get Felipe an appointment to that Naval Academy of yours. He’s a bright, brave fellow—and he knows where he’s going and why he’s going there. As for me, just send my boots back when you’re finished with ’em. Vaya con Dios.”
* * * *
The Boeing 737 MAX pulled away from the gate precisely at 1030. As the plane taxied, the pilot came up on the Mexican FAA Air Traffic Control frequency and reported: “Vuelo Mexico Flight X-ray One Niner One, standing by on Mike India Delta Runway One Zero outbound for Lima Alpha Sierra with eighteen souls aboard, fourteen pax, and four crew. Filing flight plan Romeo. Altimeter three-zero-point-one.”
Ten seconds later the Merida tower responded, “Roger, Vuelo Mexico One Niner One. You are cleared for takeoff on runway one-zero, report five thousand for handoff.”
When the Boeing 737 MAX began rolling down the runway, Canadian, U.S., and Mexican air traffic controllers at the North American Union Flight Monitoring Center in Pueblo, Colorado, glanced at their video screens. All three confirmed X-191 was a previously scheduled international flight and “tagged” it for “routine flight following.”
At the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency headquarters at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, a watch officer in the BOLO pod listened to the radio transmissions and peered at the video feed from the KZ-35 satellite parked over the Gulf of Mexico. He zoomed in on Merida International, watched the 737 MAX take off, noted the Gulfstream VII he was supposed to be observing in real time was still in place, and resumed his conversation with the pretty young intern he’d hooked up with for the weekend.
Two hours and seventeen minutes later, as Vuelo Mexico Flight X-191 was flight level at 37,500 feet on a heading of 285 degrees over Pecos, Texas, America became the third nation on earth to be attacked with a nuclear weapon.
ABOARD MV SEA GODDESS
LAKE ONTARIO, 44.2°N, 76.5°W
MONDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER 2032
1347 HOURS, LOCAL
All nine members of the Quds Force team aboard the 240-foot-long, Greek-owned, Liberian-flagged vessel were very pleased with themselves. It took them just nineteen minutes to erect the hydraulic launch rail and single-stage, liquid-fuel Shahab-7 missile from its lead-lined shipping container on the vessel’s foredeck—a full three minutes less than during their training in Iran.
After checking the readings on the four-foot-diameter, forty-three-foot-long missile’s instrument panel, the team leader connected a heavy electronic firing harness and waved to the ship’s captain on the bridge. To this point, everything had gone the way they rehearsed it for months before loading on the Sea Goddess at Bushehr in July. But now, without waiting for the men on the foredeck to clear away from the missile and move aft, the captain flicked up a safety cover, yelled, “Allahu akbar!” and pressed the red button.
The entire Quds Force team on the foredeck was killed instantly when the missile fired. On the bridge, the captain, helmsman, and first officer were first blinded by shards of glass as the bridge windows disintegrated, then deafened by the roar of the rocket engines and finally asphyxiated by toxic propellant smoke as the missile accelerated to mach 5 and tilted south on its preprogrammed trajectory toward Washington, D.C.
The ancient, ground-based NORAD early-warning sites in northern Canada didn’t “see” the missile launch, either. Their Aegis radars all pointed toward the Arctic—at the most likely flight path for incoming Russian, Chinese, or North Korean ICBMs. A FLASHPOINT geosynchronous satellite in stationary orbit over Baffin Bay, between Devon Island and the west coast of Greenland, did pick up the launch plume on its infrared sensors. But the aging computers at Cheyenne Mountain initially decided the sudden thermal flare over Lake Ontario was a natural gas explosion on Amherst Island in Canada.
One minute and forty-three seconds later, they knew better. That’s when the eight-hundred-pound, twenty-eight-inch-diameter, spherical HEU warhead on the missile’s tip detonated prematurely at sixty thousand feet, just north of Oswego, New York.
One hundred and fifty miles west of the explosion, Air Force One was descending from twenty-five thousand feet over Lake Erie on a heading of 060 degrees with clearance to land on runway 05 at Buffalo-Niagara International Airport. The last thing the pilots saw was the retina-destroying flash just above the horizon. In the cockpit and throughout the cabin, every instrument suddenly went dark as the electromagnetic pulse from the 450 kiloton Iranian warhead instantly fried the Boeing 747s supposedly impregnable electronic circuitry.
The blackout shades in the Executive Suite on the starboard side of Air Force One were closed, so the nuclear weapon’s blinding flare didn’t awaken the president. The sudden silence did. She lay still in her bunk for a few seconds, shook her head to clear the cobwebs from her fast-acting sleep inhalant, and listened for engine noise, the air-conditioning—anything. Nothing.
Her first instinct was to summon the steward—an Air For
ce master sergeant. She pressed the remote several times without effect, then tried the light switch beside her bed. Again, nothing.
She sat bolt upright in the bunk and manually opened the nearest shade. Bright sunlight poured into the suite and she grabbed the phone off her desk, expecting a WHCA communicator on the deck above to immediately answer. The phone was dead.
Furious at the lack of response, she went to the door and tried to open it, but its electronic latch refused to disengage. She began banging on it with her fist and yelling, “Open this damned door, now!”
Then, from the other side of the panel, she heard a male voice. “Ma’am, it’s Flagler, your PSD chief. The plane has lost power. We’re going to have to use emergency equipment to get you out. Stand back from the doorway and put on your life vest.”
Anger suddenly gave way to panic. She scrambled away from the hatch and fumbled, hands shaking, for a life vest beneath her bunk. It took two Secret Service agents more than twenty blows with two fire axes to batter through the armored door.
When the portal finally opened, she screamed at her rescuers, “What the hell took you so long? Find somebody who knows what the devil is going on!” The thought of praying never occurred to her.
It took nearly three terrifying minutes for the presidential aircraft, now just an enormous, uncontrolled glider, to splash down a mile south of Buffalo’s Peace Bridge to Canada. Motorists, stranded on the span when the EMP burst killed their auto engines, watched in horror as the big white and blue plane hit the water, broke up, and sank. Of the twenty-six crew members and ninety-seven passengers aboard Air Force One, only thirteen survived the crash. The president and vice president were not among them.
EPILOGUE
WASHINGTON, DC
