Macklin glanced at Prost and Adair, then fixed the JCS chairman in his gaze. "What do you recommend?" Chalmers spoke in a confident, clear voice. "Sir, Tehran is the real threat in the region, not Baghdad. Iran has already demonstrated their ability to launch cruise missiles from the air, sea, or land. I recommend we take away their nuclear capability, before our conventional power becomes checkmated."
Chalmers poured himself a glass of water. "With the aid of certain Islamic fundamentalist groups, Tehran may feel that the time has come to purge the United States from the Holy Land, then destroy Israel."
"He's right," Prost declared. "The Israelis have been passing out gas masks and updating their emergency kits." "Nuclear missiles," Chalmers continued, "or even conventional cruise missiles, are a surefire way to take advantage of the situation and destabilize the whole peninsula. If we, or one of our allies, take a major hit, then cut and run, the fanatics in Iran will be doin' the boogie-woogie right down Main Street, Tehran."
The president eyed him skeptically.
"We have to consider every possibility," Chalmers stubbornly persisted. "If Saudi Arabia is ruled by Islamic extremists, we're going to see an oil shock that'll dwarf the one of the seventies. But that'll pale in comparison to the tremendous oil wealth the Islamic extremists will devote to anti-American terrorism worldwide."
Chalmers leveled his gaze at the president. "When you consider the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction to Islamic extremists, transnational terrorism quickly emerges as our primary national security threat. It isn't if they'll use the weapons, it's a question of when they'll use them ... and where."
A hint of worry crossed the president's face as he rested his cigar in an oversized crystal ashtray.
"We can't deny the obvious," Chalmers persisted. "Terrorism is rapidly engulfing our world, and that includes the heartland of America. There are millions of zealots--Islamic or otherwise--who believe they're the agents of Allahu, or some other God. These kooks see terrorism as a way to punish their enemies in God's name."
Macklin slumped in his chair and quietly tapped his fingers on the table.
Chalmers spoke slowly and clearly. "We have to take away Iran's nuclear capability, and we have to do it now ... before we're caught in a crossfire in the Gulf."
The president leaned forward and folded his hands on the table, then caught Chalmer's eye. "They aren't going to take this lying down. We're a major target for states or terrorist groups whose ambitions are frustrated by our superpower status."
"Sir," Chalmers said as his mouth tightened, "we have the biggest and heaviest hammer on the block. I'm not overly concerned about Iranian reprisals once we destroy their nukes, and I'm damn sure not worried about keeping oil flowing through the strait."
"Les," the president said impatiently, "this situation is ripe for miscalculation. I don't mean to sound like the harbinger of doom, but those people are going to strike back--and strike back with a vengeance. There's no doubt about it. They're absolutely convinced it's their moral responsibility to attack their tormentors. If we're not careful, we could find ourselves backed into a very uncomfortable corner."
Macklin gritted his teeth. "If we get drawn into a major regional conflict--like the Gulf War--we could be vulnerable to aggression by a host of potential enemies." The president narrowly eyed his former wingman. "Enemies who might be convinced that we lack the military capability to oppose them."
Prost quickly intervened. "Sir, if we become paralyzed with fear, then the terrorists have already won the war." "Dammit," Macklin exclaimed in frustration. "We have to consider the consequences of our actions. We're dealing with a primary supporter of terrorism here. Forget about their submarines, antishipping mines, cruise missiles, and nukes. No other thug regime on the planet employs terrorism more effectively as an instrument of national policy."
Prost became rigid with indignation.
"Terrorism," the president went on contentiously, "that reaches every corner of the globe. There was a time when the World Trade Center bombing would have seemed unthinkable. Now, the friggin' terrorists are crawling in our back doors, and they have chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons. Think about it. One nuke concealed in a truck or car could take out Los Angeles or New York."
When no one said a word, the president realized his voice had trembled in frustration. He quickly gathered himself together. "Gentlemen," he said with a wide smile, "enough of this discussion."
With a trace of embarrassment, Macklin took a slow, deep breath. "We'll discuss our options after dinner."
Pete Adair and Les Chalmers exchanged a brief glance. They had known the president for many years and he wasn't his usual self.
Seconds. later Attorney General Sandra Hatcher and Jim Ebersole, the director of the FBI, were quickly ushered into the Situation Room. Sensing trouble, Macklin braced himself against the tension in the air.
"Mr. President," Sandy Hatcher said without hesitation, "we have a serious problem."
Chapter 9
Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport.
The dark cumulus clouds were turning an angry greenish black when Scott and Jackie finally arrived at the airport. Running late, they had been delayed by a mix-up in arrangements for their ground transportation.
"You go ahead," Scott said as they neared a set of rest rooms. "I'll catch up with you at the gate."
"We don't have much time."
"I'll be right behind you."
Suppressing a growing concern about the weather, Jackie quickly made her way to their gate. With the exception of a few stragglers, including Ed Hockaday, most of the passengers had boarded American Airlines Flight 1684 to Washington, D. C. Jackie and Ed saw each other at the same moment.
"Jackay," exclaimed the robust, jolly giant.
"Hi, Eddy," she exclaimed, hurrying to greet him. Sporting a green-and-white polka-dot bow tie and a thatch of hair best described as fire-engine red, Hockaday's bulldog features invited a cheery smile. "I daresay you've given me a bit of a fright." He beamed as he opened his arms to hug her. "I just knew I was going to miss the pleasure of your company."
"Well, we made it--barely." Jackie laughed as she squeezed the friendly bear of a man. "It's so good to see you."
"Likewise, my dear."
Scott walked up as she and Hockaday were reminiscing and Jackie introduced the two men.
Turning to Scott, she smoothly slid an arm under and around Hockaday's forearm. "'E's honest, 'e's loyal, but 'e can be bought for a pint or two."
Hockaday belly-laughed and hugged her around the shoulder. "For a Beefeater martini, I'd even do your windows." Scott smiled and started to speak when he was interrupted by the ring of Jackie's cell phone. She plucked it out of a pocket on the leg of her jumpsuit and snapped it open. "Sullivan," she answered tersely, then gave Scott a concerned look.
"We're about to board our flight," she challenged the caller, then changed the tone of her voice. "I understand," she said in a mild state of surprise as she absently closed the phone.
"Scott," she said with a sudden intensity. "Hartwell has an urgent message for us, but he won't discuss it over a cell phone. We have to find a pay phone, call him at the White House, then wait for a return call in about ten minutes." "The White House?"
"Yes."
Dalton nodded, but remained quiet. I wonder if we've squared off against the Iranians?
A gate agent with a flattop haircut lifted a microphone. "All passengers holding confirmed seats on American Airlines Flight 1684 nonstop service to Ronald Reagan Washington National should now be onboard."
Jackie gave Hockaday a sad look. "Eddy, we're going to have to take a later flight. I'll give you a call when we get to D. C."
Hockaday glanced at the airline agent who was about to close the door to the jetway passenger boarding bridge. "Sounds good," he said cheerfully as he started toward the door. "Give me a ring when you get settled in."
"I'll do it," she said, and waved good-bye, then
turned to locate a phone.
"What's going on?" Scott asked as he fell in step.
"You know as much as I do," she answered as she spied an empty stall. "If it's any consolation"--she shrugged indifferently--"they tried your phone first."
"I never take it on vacation," Scott said, then quietly waited while Jackie picked up the receiver. When she was sure she would not be overheard by passersby, she called and left their number.
Less than two minutes later Jackie flinched when the phone rang. "It's for you," she said without rancor.
Scott reached for the phone and surveyed everyone around him as he quietly spoke to Prost. The conversation was short and tense. When he hung up the receiver, Scott stared at the phone for a moment, then closed his eyes. Farkas is just the opening act.
"Bad news?" Jackie asked, knowing the answer.
"Well ..." He hesitated and shook his head. "Are you familiar with a terrorist named Khaliq Farkas?"
For a split second she froze as the line of her mouth became grimly straight. "I sure am," she said in disgust. "I'd like to get my hands on that--"
Scott's eyes grew large.
"SOB." She softened. "What's he done now?"
"Nothing yet." Scott's nerves were suddenly on edge. "He was spotted in Wyoming this morning, but that isn't the bad news," Dalton said as his gaze wandered around the immediate area.
"I'm waiting."
"He was seen flying an A-4 Skyhawk complete with missile racks."
Jackie drew back. "Missile racks?" she asked, trying to make sense of the fragments of information. "Wyoming?" "That's right," he quietly said. "Hartwell said the attorney general just briefed the president and he wanted as to be on guard."
"Wait a second," Jackie queried with a suspicious look. "I think I missed something. Maybe you better start from the beginning."
With the hair standing up on the back of his neck, Scott glanced around the area. "Some local pilots at the Casper airport took pictures--Prost said videotape--of the plane and pilot when he stopped for fuel early this morning. The people at the airport became suspicious of Farkas and contacted their local FBI office. The agents viewed the tape, and after picking themselves up from the floor, they called Washington." "Are they positive it was Farkas?"
"No question about it. He's clean shaven now, but Hartwell said that they don't have any doubt. And, surprise surprise, the Skyhawk didn't have any registration numbers on it. That's probably what made the people at the airport suspicious."
"No markings of any kind?"
"Not a thing, except for a blue-and-gray camouflage paint scheme."
"Fearless Farkas has surfaced again," Jackie said with cold frustration, then glanced around the concourse. "This is absolutely crazy. There's a multimillion-dollar bounty on him, and he's blissfully flying around our skies in a military jet. Go figure."
"Yeah," Scott said as he studied the other travelers, "he's definitely a gutsy little bastard, but he won't be able to elude us forever."
A brilliant flash of lightning caught her eye. "Do they have any idea where he's headed?"
"All the witnesses at Casper agreed that he initially headed southeast, then turned due east about three miles from the airport."
The sound of rolling thunder suddenly drifted through the terminal.
Stiff and tense, Jackie stared at Scott. "He'll do anything, and I mean anything, to complete his mission--whatever it is."
"Or to escape being captured," Scott said, pointing to a small reddish scar on his neck under his right ear. "A little souvenir from a recent encounter with Farkas."
Her eyes opened wide in disbelief. "You're kidding," Jackie said as she examined the scar.
"No."
"I didn't see anything in your records."
"That's because I didn't say anything about the wound." "What happened?"
Scott allowed a lazy smile to touch the corners of his mouth. "I was in Tel Aviv on a tip that Farkas had been spotted in the area. I was checking security systems when we literally bumped into each other at the entrance to a hotel. He fired three or four shots at me, one of which grazed my neck."
"Were you armed?"
"Yes, but I couldn't return fire. There were too many people in the way. He grabbed a pedestrian and used her as a shield until his driver pulled up beside them. Farkas shoved her away, then jumped in the car and disappeared in the traffic."
"I'm amazed that no one recognized him?"
"He was masquerading as an Israeli general."
"That's what I mean," Jackie declared with a shake of her head. "He isn't afraid of anything, and he gets away with murder--literally."
"His day is coming," Scott said mechanically. "He knows I've been dogging him ever since our unexpected meeting." "Well, he's here now," Jackie said, restless with energy. "You may get a chance for a second meeting."
"I would like nothing better."
She picked up the solemnity in his expression. "Let's change our reservations," she said on a high note. "Then how about a drink?"
"You've got a deal." A thunderbolt of lightning prompted Scott to study the dark clouds. "I hope this weather clears before we take off."
"That makes two of us."
Chapter 10
American Flight 1684.
Relaxing in the first-class section, Ed Hockaday flinched when a loud clap of thunder boomed across the airport.
A nervous flier in the best of conditions, he glanced at the dark storm clouds, then tilted his glass to finish the last of his double martini. He loosened his seat belt and relaxed slightly as the effects of the alcohol took hold.
By the time the terrorist conference was over, Hockaday and the other experts had made one point abundantly clear to their audience; in the past, when terrorists wanted to attack U. S. forces or American citizens, they did it overseas. Now, with the growing animosity between the West and the Iranian leadership, the rules had changed. More and more attacks would likely be taking place on American soil.
Citing the Defense Department study Terror 2000: The Future Face of Terrorism, a specialist in the Office of the Assistant Secretary of Defense for Special Operations and Low Intensity Conflict predicted that Iran's network of state-sponsored terrorism would rapidly progress to larger-scale operations in the United States.
The experts also believed that incidents that caused few fatalities would no longer have the shock value the terrorists desired. They would concentrate their efforts on inflicting mass casualties, the kind likely to capture U. S. media coyerage for extended periods of time. Expressing their mounting fears, Ed Hockaday and most of the conferees agreed that open warfare would have to be waged against terrorists and their supporters.
Across the aisle from Hockaday, Senator Travis Morgan signed an autograph for an exuberant flight attendant assigned to the coach section. After the vivacious young woman thanked Morgan and returned to her duties, the chairman of the vice-president's task force on terrorism took a sip of his bourbon and resumed his conversation with his wife. The smiling couple held hands as they quietly discussed their new grandson.
Morgan had delivered the keynote address in Dallas, noting the serious problems stemming from the spread of terrorism. When he called for open discussions, a lively exchange erupted between law enforcement officials and antiterrorist experts.
When Senator Morgan felt the jet being pushed back from the gate, he asked for another bourbon on the rocks, then opened his Wall Street Journal to skim the political news and the op-eds.
A spattering of warm rain was pelting the terminal building at DFW when Captain Chuck Harrison taxied the twin-engine jetliner away from the passenger boarding bridge. Harrison was in command of Flight 1684, a McDonnell Douglas MD-80-series aircraft. Scheduled to depart Dallas--Fort Worth at 4:50 P. M., the nonstop flight was running a few minutes late as a result of weather-related traffic slowdowns.
The former B-52 aircraft commander and his copilot, First Officer Pamela Gibbs, surveyed the ominous rotor clouds
as a massive storm began to engulf the northern perimeter of the sprawling airport. Placing her personal handheld GPS in the side pocket of her flight bag, Gibbs watched the advancing greenish-black squall line, then glanced at Harrison. "I'm just waiting for a funnel cloud to drop out of this mess." "I wouldn't be surprised," he said with a concerned look at the swirling rotor clouds. "Definitely not an ideal day for aviating."
"Ditto," she said with a hint of reservation in her voice. "This looks like a good day to go Amtrak."
Even though this time of year was considered to be the height of thunderstorm season in northern Texas, both pilots were surprised to see such a powerful weather system develop so quickly. Brilliant, searing flashes of cloud-to-cloud lightning flickered back and forth as the towering storm blocked the light of the sun and turned day into night. The air was thick and heavy with moisture, promising to spawn even more savage storms before the evening was over. Carefully merging the heavily loaded plane with a half-dozen other jetliners, Harrison felt the gnawing pressure to get airborne as soon as possible. If they could get off the ground before the intense storm rolled over them, Harrison felt confident he could give his passengers a comfortable ride to their cruising altitude.
In an attempt to suppress her concern about the mounting intensity of the storm, Pam Gibbs turned to Harrison and smiled. "Did you have a chance to meet the senator?"
"Yeah," he answered as he released the brakes and moved forward in concert with the other pilots. "We chatted for a minute. He seems like a pretty decent guy ... for a career politician."
Pam chuckled to herself and looked at Harrison. "What," she said with mock surprise, "no tirade today?"
"I had to stop watching C-SPAN." Harrison smiled as he gently applied the brakes. "It was causing a blood pressure problem."
Reading a report from the House Task Force on Terrorism and Unconventional Warfare, FBI terrorist expert Marsha Phillips glanced at two other special agents seated in the back of the coach section. Chatting quietly with the director of the Department of State's Antiterrorism Training Program, the agents appeared to be totally at ease.
Primary Target (1999) Page 7
