Scott's glance locked with Prost. "If the Iranians launch their nukes at our forces, the entire Gulf region would be uninhabitable for hundreds of years. If they lob a few nukes on Tel Aviv at the same time, the Israelis will turn downtown Tehran into one gigantic smoking hole."
"Gigantic radioactive hole," Prost added. Tilting his head back, he studied the blue Alaskan skies and turned to Scott. "That's the dilemma the president is struggling with. This is very different from the Cold War era. The Soviet premiers and their military leaders had wicked intentions, but they were at least rational, and somewhat predictable. They didn't really want to have a nuclear exchange with us and risk losing the fragile control they had over their people."
Prost continued with a sense of dread. "Iran is an entirely different anomaly. It is, without a doubt, the greatest nondeterrable threat we face, and Tehran now has the capability to deliver chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons. One miscalculation and the Middle East could erupt into a war that might set off North Korea--and other rogue nations--and force us to use our nukes."
"Take away their options," Scott suggested.
"That's what the president is considering," Prost said emphatically. "Have you heard the latest threats from Bassam Shakhar?"
"I haven't heard a thing for the past three days."
Before leaving on his fishing vacation, Scott had seen extensive news coverage of the wealthy militant shouting threats at the United States, desecrating the American flag, and burning the U. S. president in effigy.
"The last I knew, Shakhar was threatening to assassinate the president if we didn't pack our trash and get out of the Middle East."
Prost slowly exhaled. "That hasn't changed," he said with a grimace, "but Shakhar added a new twist yesterday morning--a globally televised reminder of our deadline."
Scott let it run through his mind, then shook his head. "Shakhar is backing himself into a corner."
"He doesn't think so." Prost raised his arm and studied his wristwatch. "According to Shakhar, we now have less than four hours to begin removing our military forces from the Arabian peninsula, or his premier terrorists cells will assassinate the president of the United States and begin downing U. S. airliners. In fact, Shakhar brazenly stated that his primary target is President Macklin."
"He actually said that?" Scott asked with an anxious expression of disbelief.
"Live on CNN and MSNBC," Prost groused. "If the U. S. attempts to retaliate in any way, Shakhar said the Iranian Navy will close the Strait of Hormuz and starve the West of oil. He also said Iran has prepositioned a wide variety of biological and chemical agents in all major U. S. cities." The first warning light flashed in Scott's mind. "The guy is crazy--he's a madman who needs to be institutionalized." "Crazy or not, he is a major player in this whole scenario, and he has a sizable fortune at his disposal."
"Is the president going to back down?"
"No . Way." Prost's voice was quieter, flatter. "He thinks they're bluffing, and he intends to call their bluff."
"What do you think?" Scott asked.
"Bassam Shakhar is not a man who makes idle threats." Prost tossed a pebble in the river. "If they've prepositioned nerve agents, botulism, or anthrax in our largest cities, it would be easy to pollute our air and municipal water supplies. However, we don't have any evidence to substantiate his claim--at least not yet."
Prost picked up another pebble. "On the other hand, Shakbar knows our commercial aviation security system--for the most part--is inadequate and disorganized. It's nearly impossible to develop and maintain security areas around congested urban airports. He also knows airports and airliners are vulnerable to sabotage, and shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapons."
"And," Jackie said with feigned nonchalance, "the terrorists understand the primal fear that airline crashes strike in the hearts of millions of people who--by necessity--have to fly commercially."
"Absolute fear is their primary goal," Prost agreed in a sad voice. "If Shakhar can drop a dozen U. S. airliners, and orchestrate the assassination of the president, the members of the Supreme Council. believe Americans will fall to their knees in fear and confusion."
Jackie looked straight into Scott's eyes. "We may think it sounds wacky, but they truly believe it."
"I have no doubt. An assassination, combined with the airlines going bankrupt, would certainly put us in a bind." "If Shakhar isn't bluffing," Prost went on, "we're a little late on the draw. We're going to have to take some major risks, and we're going to have to do it quickly." He glanced at a moose ambling toward the river. "That's why I'm here." As he saw the deep concern written on Prost's face, Scott's entire body suddenly tensed. His glance sliced to Jackie, then back to Prost. "Okay. What's the plan?"
"We've penetrated a few of the terrorist groups," Prost confided triumphantly. "During the past sixteen months, our undercover agents--including a number of Islamic recruits--have infiltrated the Hezbollah of Hejaz, al-Gamaat, alIslamiyah, Hamas, and the Organization of Islamic Revolution at the Imam Ali Camp in east Tehran. It's like playing the lottery: you have to dump a lot of money in, but every now and then someone hits the big prize."
"And we hit the jackpot," Jackie announced with pride in her voice. "One of my colleagues--also a civilian agent--successfully infiltrated one of the main training camps for the central faction of Islamic Jihad."
Scott merely nodded.
"About eight months ago," Jackie continued, her voice filled with exuberance, "Bassam Shakhar began spending three to four hours a week at the training camp. He's surrounded by heavy security and comes and goes at random times, but he is the kingpin behind the anti-U. S. military operation."
Scott felt a tingle of excitement. "The agent--is he still there?"
"She," Jackie informed him in a pleasant voice. "Her name is Maritza Gunzelman. She's still at the camp, but she recently came under suspicion, and they're closely watching every move she makes."
"Why do you think they're suspicious of her?" Scott asked.
"I really don't know for certain." Jackie paused, eyeing Scott briefly. "She sent us a short message about three weeks ago. She's gleaned a lot of important information about Shakhar, his plans, and his team leaders. Unfortunately, since they've become suspicious of her, we aren't able to communicate with Maritza like we did before. She's trapped there and we're going to have to mount a covert operation to rescue her."
Although he was intrigued by what she had divulged, Scott's curiosity about Sullivan's role was quickly getting the best of him. There was a bold and adventurous spirit about her--an air of courage that was both sensuous and reckless. About five and a half feet in height, she had dark brown hair swept back in a wedge, and seductive gray-green eyes that didn't miss anything.
"No offense," Scott said, aware that Prost had a tendency to be absentminded around attractive women, "but I'm a little confused about Ms. Sullivan's role."
"I apologize," Prost hurriedly replied. "It's been a long night for us. We left straight from the White House and went to Andrews to catch a flight to Elmendorf. Jackie and Maritza are former clandestine intelligence officers with the Defense Humint Service, and, like you, she and Maritza have become civilian consultants."
Suddenly the synapse hit Scott like a two-by-four. I invited her to go sailing with me. His face flushed as it all came rushing back from the previous year. Her hair had been longer and she had been wearing a stunning black cocktail dress, but it was definitely the same woman he had met at an elegant restaurant in Georgetown.
Jackie and three of her girlfriends had been enjoying a lively birthday bash at 1789. Scott and another former Marine pilot had introduced themselves to the quartet, then hosted after-dinner cordials for the group. Later, when Scott managed to get Jackie alone, he'd invited her to go sailing. She accepted the invitation, but Scott left the following day for Buenos Aires, and during his quest to capture an international terrorist, he misplaced Jackie's name and phone number.
Scott tilted his h
ead down. 1 hope she doesn't remember who 1 am.
"Besides speaking six languages," Prost continued, "and being an excellent markswoman, Jackie's an expert in counterterrorism and international weapons proliferation."
Scott cast a quick look at her and noticed the guarded, aloof poise she maintained. He assumed a guise of nonchalance while she eyed him with close curiosity. If she remembers, she's hiding it well.
"She's a former Air Force F-16 pilot who also flies helicopters, and she teaches a course in high-speed evasive driving."
Scott gave her a casual glance, then cleared his throat. "Okay"--he paused--"where do I fit in?"
Prost's eyes hardened and a forced smile highlighted his cheeks. "President Macklin and I would like you--working in conjunction with Jackie--to extract Maritza Gunzelman from the terrorist compound." The words came out as a challenge. "We have to know what Shakhar is really up to, find out if he's bluffing."
Scott's response was stony silence for a few seconds, followed by a slow grin. "That's a mighty tall order."
"That's why the president sent me to talk to you in person," Prost confided. "This is extremely important. Our intel--CIA, the Brits, and Mossad--indicates a flurry of activity in the Shalchar camps, but Maritza is the only operative who has firsthand knowledge of his intentions."
"It's critical," Jackie asserted. "We have to find out what Maritza has learned about Shakhar's specific plans."
Scott arched an eyebrow, but remained silent while he contemplated the scope of the operation.
"President Macklin," Prost went on, "asked me to tell you that you have carte blanche to carry out the mission."
Prost placed his hands on his knees. "Scott, we have every reason to believe that Ms. Gunzelman has critical information that is vital to our national interest. We have to know what their plans are."
Scott's eyes shifted from Prost to Sullivan.
Jackie's expression was intense. "Maritza had originally planned to disappear from the Bekaa Valley during one of her weekly trips to the marketplace. Now she isn't allowed to leave the compound."
Scott slowly shook his head. "I can't perform miracles." "She's in real jeopardy." Jackie's voice took on a sense of urgency. "We can't storm the place, and there are too many obstacles in and around the camp to risk a simple helicopter extraction."
"It sounds like a suicide mission," Scott said. "The terrorists are well armed and ruthless, but that's only part of the problem. That entire valley is a center of international drug production. The druggies and their security teams are also well armed, and they shoot at anything--and I mean anything--that threatens their billion-dollar business."
Scott paused, then smiled ruefully. "Another minor problem is the thousands of Syrian troops in the valley. Target practice is their favorite pastime, night or day."
"I'm fully aware of everything you've just mentioned," Jackie retorted with a flash of anger. "I don't know what else to say, except that I'm going after her--with or without you." Scott experienced a faint twinge of guilt.
"We really need your special skills and experience," she implored.
Scott gave her a brief nod, then turned his attention to the man responsible for coordinating the activities of the National Security Council. "I'll give it a try--on one condition."
"It's your show," Prost said, knowing how Scott operated. "You call the shots, no questions asked. Whatever you need just extract Ms. Gunzelman from the terrorist camp." Scott and Jackie exchanged glances.
"Is that acceptable to you?" Scott asked. "I make the final decisions?"
"Fair enough," she said with a sly smile. "Unless, of course, you make faulty decisions."
Scott saw the self-satisfied gleam in her eyes. He sensed that she was going to be a formidable challenge.
Prost broke the undercurrent of tension. "Scott, do you want to use O'Donnell as your drop pilot?"
"Absolutely," Scott replied as he shifted his gaze to Prost. "Ah, yes, the brotherhood," Jackie deadpanned.
With his eyes reflecting a devilish trace of humor, Scott turned to her. "Now that's what I like--a woman who is direct and honest."
Refusing to take the bait, she smiled serenely and changed the topic. "Are you acquainted with Ed Hockaday?"
"I know of him," Scott admitted with apparent indifference. "But I've never met him."
Edward "Eddy" Hockaday was an eccentric and savvy English-born journalist who covered the Arab world. In addition, he pocketed a second income as a freelance spy for the Agency.
"I have arranged a meeting with him in Dallas late this afternoon." Her eyes never wavered from his. "He's been in the compound and has interviewed Shakhar for CNN, and he spoke at length with Maritza. He'll be able to give us a detailed description of the training facility and the surrounding area."
"Is he in Dallas for the seminar on terrorism?" Scott asked. "Yes, he's one of the guest speakers."
"I'm looking forward to meeting him."
"Then let's get moving." She reached down and retrieved two American Airlines tickets from a pocket on the leg of her flight suit, then handed one to Scott. "The Air Force has a plane standing by to fly us to DFW as soon as you've packed your gear and briefed O'Donnell. He can fly back to Washington with Hartwell."
"Whoa--wait a second," Scott said, smiling faintly. "That assumes Greg will join the show."
"You're former Marine jet jocks, aren't you?" she taunted. "That's right."
"He'll go," she said with undisguised cockiness. "We'll meet Eddy at DFW and fly back to Washington with him. If everything goes as planned, we'll leave the following day for Athens--our staging area."
She tilted her head to meet his gaze. "Any questions?" "Not at the moment," Scott said lightly.
Prost signaled the helicopter crew and started walking toward the helo.
"Well," Scott said as he glanced at her, "we better not keep Mr. Hockaday waiting."
"You're the boss," Jackie demurred with practiced ease.
Chapter 5
Khaliq Farkas.
Monitoring the A-4 Skyhawk's Global Positioning Systern, Khaliq Farkas noted his progress and the course to his final destination near Huntington, West Virginia. This was real flying; exactly how he remembered the sensation during his jet transition training at Tampa International Airport. In a matter of seven weeks, he had mastered both the Cessna Citation II and a civilian-owned former Navy TA-4J Skyhawk.
To Farkas, this was the ultimate experience in the world of aviation. He was captivated by the exhilaration of flying high-performance military aircraft to the edge of the envelope--and sometimes beyond.
Considered one of the world's most dangerous and cunning terrorists, Khaliq Farkas had successfully eluded an international manhunt for over sixteen years. During that period, in addition to learning how to fly jets at the expense of Bassam Shakhar, Farkas had mastered the art of building remotely triggered bombs while he and his devout followers watched the bounty on his head steadily increase to $4.35 million.
Operating with various special action cells of Islamic Jihad, he had been the mastermind behind numerous ambushes and bombings, including the suicide truck bombing on the U. S. Marine barracks in Beirut in 1983.
More recently, Farkas had assisted Shakhar in planning and executing the bombing of the Khobar Towers military housing complex in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia.
Farkas was also directly responsible for the bombings of two U. S. embassies and the kidnapping and assassinations of a number of political and religious leaders. Along with his record of murder, torture, and bombings, he proudly took credit for downing two U. S. airliners and a French corporate jet. Now, with the strong encouragement and considerable financial backing from Bassam Shakhar, Farkas was stalking new prey in the heart of America.
Known as a merciless chameleon by his pursuers, Farkas lived for the banishment of American and French influence from the Middle East. An explosively bitter little man, his hatred of "Western imperialism" was a crippling emotion that someti
mes blinded him from reality. His campaign of zeal and fury would not end until the Americans and their cultural "pollution" disappeared from the Persian Gulf.
A thin, energetic man with dark, deeply set eyes, Farkas was a cruel, cold-blooded sociopath who could kill without compunction. At times he frowned and his eyes glazed over before he would suddenly smile so horribly that people would step back from him. The father of the "human bombs" suicide battalions, Khaliq Farkas was the frightening product of an extremist ideological culture.
Farkas unsnapped his oxygen mask and took off his crash helmet. He rubbed his scalp to stimulate the blood flow and watched the scattered clouds rush under the compact fuselage of the single-engine, single-seat Skyhawk. Refreshed, he donned his helmet and snapped the mask in place.
A moment later he grinned while he raised the Skyhawk's nose fifteen degrees above the horizon and completed an aileron roll to the left. Stopping precisely upright with the wings level, he then executed a snappy roll to the right. In his mind, there wasn't any comparison to the thrill of flying a military jet--except perhaps the thrill of flying one loaded with live ordnance.
Farkas had flown the restored McDonnell Douglas A-4 attack jet from a short, narrow airstrip near Portland, Oregon.
Even with the two auxiliary "drop tanks" empty, the departure from the restoration complex had required every inch of available runway and full power from the moment of brake release. A cold shudder ran down his spine when he remembered the charred wreckage of another jet that hadn't cleared the tops of the trees at the end of the less-than-adequate airstrip. The inexperienced pilot had overestimated the power of the jet fighter, and his own flying ability. He died a fiery death in the blazing cockpit of his F9F-2 Panther.
Due to his light load of fuel on departure, Farkas had been forced to make an en route refueling stop at Casper, Wyoming. The gray and blue Skyhawk, complete with two operational Mk-12 cannons and wing stations for two heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles, had attracted unwanted attention at the airport.
Primary Target (1999) Page 4
