"He thought we were dead," Jackie said through clenched teeth.
"He thought I was dead."
Her throat felt tight as she gripped the Sig Sauer in her right hand. "You could see it in the look on his face."
"No doubt about it." Scott slammed on the brakes, then pressed hard on the accelerator when Farkas's taillights flickered an instant before he swerved to miss an ambulance. "Take a shot when I get closer."
Jackie hit the switch that lowered her window, then grasped the weapon with both hands and leaned out of the car. Deluged by rain and spray, she waited until Scott was less than twenty feet from the cab. Barely able to see through the downpour, she aimed for the back windshield and gently squeezed the trigger.
Boom! Boom!
Two fist-sized holes appeared near the top of the rear windshield as it shattered in an explosion of glass particles. Jackie wiped the water from her eyes and squeezed again. Boom! Boom!
Stunned and cut by the flying fragments of glass, Farkas swerved back and forth while he pointed his weapon rearward and blindly fired every round in his clip.
Two shells went through the Town Car's radiator before three rounds shattered the windshield, blowing the rearview mirror into the backseat and spraying Scott with glass. Jackie yanked her head inside the car. "Are you okay?" "Couldn't be better," he exclaimed, stomping on the accelerator. "Okay, you son of a bitch, it's time to show your hand!"
Consumed by rage, Scott pulled up to the taxi and rammed the trunk on the driver's side. He kept the throttle buried, turning Farkas slightly sideways. "Come on, lose it."
"Be careful," Jackie said as she subconsciously pushed on the floorboard. "We've already cheated death once today." Scott backed off a few feet.
Farkas steered into the slide, then jammed the brake pedal to the floor, causing the Lincoln to smash into the trunk of the taxi. Scott eased back a couple of car lengths seconds before Farkas sideswiped a new Corvette convertible, spinning the sports car completely around.
"Take another shot!"
"Next time I'll drive--you do the shooting!"
Jackie leaned out and fired three quick rounds, hitting the trunk twice and shattering the driver's-side mirror.
"Lucky shot," Scott said lightly as Farkas yanked the car to the right, then back to the left. "That got his attention." She wiped her face and glanced at Scott. "How did Farkas know? Who gave him the information about the flight?"
He darted a look at her. "Who knows?" he answered without hesitation. "An Iranian operative--an agent who follows the Washington scen--"
"Watch it," she shouted as Farkas whipped the taxi to the left to pass a Mayflower moving van. Scott started to follow, then stood on the brakes when he saw that the road was partially blocked ahead. The right front fender of the Town Car clipped the moving van, throwing the car out of control. "Sonuva--" Dalton gasped as they tried to brace themselves before the car flipped over and slid on its roof, popping the shattered windshield out. There was a wrenching tear of metal while the pavement ground away the roof. When the crashing, crunching noise finally stopped, it was a dazed few moments before Jackie and Scott realized they were alive and in one piece.
"Get out!" Scott said as he detected the odor of gasoline. "We're leaking fuel--get out! Now!"
Terror overcame her as she tugged frantically at the seat belt buckle. She saw flashing lights and heard voices coming closer as Scott released her buckle. Then she recoiled when she saw the first reddish-yellow flame dart from beneath the smashed hood. She heard a muffled sound a second before the small fire blossomed into a roaring inferno.
"Let's go!" Scott said as he kicked out a backseat window. He pulled Jackie partially through the jagged opening before she got a foothold and pushed herself clear of the burning wreckage. They scrambled away from the blazing car, then stumbled across the road before the Lincoln exploded in a massive fireball. Amid the confusion and chaos of the moment, Khaliq Farkas had disappeared in a sea of flashing lights and emergency vehicles.
Wet, muddy, and shaking, Jackie gave Scott a troubled look and shook her head. "You need some driving lessons." He looked at her smudged face and glanced at the burning car. "Well, I just happen to know a woman who is an expert instructor in high-speed evasive driving."
She forced a weak smile. "I was thinking you might want to begin at a demolition derby, and work your way up." "Hey, even Richard Petty had off days."
Jackie started to respond, then paused when she caught sight of the multitude of police officers approaching them. "I suppose you'd like to handle this situation."
"Sure," he said with a confident smile, then reached for his credentials. "This is going to cause a mountain of paperwork."
Chapter 13
The White House.
The shocking news from the attorney general about the sighting of !Chang Farkas in Wyoming had been the central topic of conversation during the working dinner. The decision to keep the frightening discovery as understated as possible was unanimous. No one wanted to stir the media into a feeding frenzy, causing a nationwide panic.
The military services, Coast Guard, and several government agencies, including the CIA's Counterterrorist Center, the CIA's newly opened Global Response Center, the Secret Service, and the Federal Aviation Administration had been informed about the threat posed by Farkas and his A-4 Sky-hawk. While hundreds of airport managers and fixed-based operators were being alerted, scores of aircraft were already searching for the camouflaged blue-and-gray attack aircraft.
After dinner and dessert, President Macklin and his advisers returned to the White House Situation Room. When everyone was comfortably seated around the expansive table, Hartwell Prost cautiously confronted the chief executive.
"Mr. President," Prost said in his crisp Ivy League monotone. "This whole thing bothers me."
With a weary effort, Macklin leaned back in his chair. Prost hesitated, then continued. "I consider it my duty to recommend that you move to an undisclosed location until we have a handle on things. You know as well as I do, it's next to impossible to defend the White House against an air attack. With Farkas on the loose, I think it's prudent that we take swift action to ensure the safety of you and the first lady."
For a moment Macklin appeared surprised by the suggestion. But his skepticism was obvious to everyone.
Prost stared straight at the chief executive. "In addition, Mr. President, we need to increase your Secret Service protection, and we should place additional SAMs on the roof."
"Wait--slow down a minute," Macklin said in a low-key voice as he raised a hand. "I'm not going anywhere, Hartwell. If I run for cover every time some nut threatens me, the terrorist groups would be falling over each other to get here."
The president shook his head. "No," he said emphatically, "I'm not going anywhere. Take whatever measures you feel are necessary to increase our security, but we're not going to abandon the White House."
Prost paused to steel himself. "Sir, with all due respect, one of the most feared men in the world is flying around this country in an A-4 Skyhawk. With that in mind, Bassam Shakhar has publicly declared that you're his primary target." A long silence followed.
"Mr. President," Prost said impatiently, "I have no doubt that Farkas has orders to assassinate you."
"Goddammit, Hartwell, I'm not going into hiding." They locked eyes. "That's final--end of discussion."
"Yes, sir," he said politely, refusing to be intimidated. "New subject?"
"New subject," the president said without any visible emotion.
Prost swept Macklin with cold eyes. "Iran's nuclear weapons are a real and immediate threat. I think we need to neutralize them first, then deal with the terrorist issue."
Inclined to be dubious, the president stared over the top of his spectacles and spoke to his national security adviser. "Hartwell, we know Iran has the capability to smuggle biological, chemical, or nuclear weapons into our country. Hell, the terrorists could as easily turn Fords and Buicks int
o low-budget stealth bombers. If we take it on ourselves to single- handedly deal a major blow to Iran, it could create so much regional instability that everyone would turn against us--including our spineless allies."
"Do you think the Iranian-controlled nuclear weapons are creating stability in the Middle East?"
Macklin's eyes flashed with anger.
With his rebellion announced, Prost continued. "Tehran and their terrorist groups are a strategic threat to Israel, to everyone in the Arab world, and now to the West. We have to neutralize their nuclear capability, before our worst fears become a reality."
"We don't have to do a damn thing," the president retorted, trying to conceal his growing irritation.
"Look at Qaddafi," Prost demanded. "We know he still keeps his hand in the terrorist game, but since Reagan thumped him on the head, we haven't heard much out of him."
"Qaddafi retaliated against us," the president suddenly blurted. "Remember Pan Am 103? If we 'thump' Iran, we could trigger a whole series of Pan Am 103s, or worse. Think about TWA 800," Macklin said curtly. "Although we can't disclose the truth to the public, we know the attack was retaliation for shooting down Iran Air Flight 655. Hell, hundreds of eyewitnesses, including professional pilots, saw a missile strike TWA 800. We may not be able to cover up the next act of retribution."
Prost ignored the remarks. "Sir, the people of this country, and the free world, are looking to the United States for leadership. It's time to show our resolve--time to set a precedent. Obviously, we need to confer with our allies, but it's up to us to take swift and decisive action against Iran."
Prost waited while the president's political handicapping process computed the various odds of increasing or decreasing his popularity rating.
General Chalmers covered his mouth and quietly coughed. "Les," the president said with open irritation, "I recognize that cough. Tell me what you think."
"Well," Chalmers began slowly, "I've been informed by luminous minds that war planning is much too serious a thing to be left to military men, especially generals. With that in mind, it's my opinion that peace is much too important to be left to diplomats."
"Excellent point," Prost declared.
Chalmers continued as if Prost had said nothing. "Together, we must solve our predicament--if we want to avoid a nuclear holocaust in the Middle East. Once someone tosses a nuke or two across the pond, we won't be able to quarantine the hysteria. There'll be a global anxiety attack that'll create political and military chaos beyond anyone's comprehension."
The air crackled with tension while the president rubbed the bridge of his nose, then made eye contact with Chalmers. "You're telling me that I don't have any other choice--is that it?"
"Sir, I wish I could provide a half-dozen options, but we're dealing with Iran." Chalmers spoke with a hint of frustration. "This is more sensitive and potentially more catastrophic than dealing with Saddam Hussein. We have to intervene to maintain stability in the Gulf region, and to ensure that Iran doesn't close the Strait of Hormuz."
Macklin quirked an eyebrow. "Les, we're a nation built on democracy. We can't go around inter--"
"This doesn't have anything to do with democracy," Chalmers interrupted. "It has to do with oil--with the economic well-being of the industrialized world. And," he said more softly, "it has to do with power. If we ignore this blatant threat, the credibility of the U. S. forces in the region will go straight to hell."
"And my credibility with it . .." The president trailed off. "That's right." Chalmers looked him straight in the eye. "You're the commander in chief, the most powerful man on this earth. You have to look at the big picture--what's best for the entire planet."
Macklin showed no emotion. "What about radiation contamination?"
"Negligible to nonexistent," Chalmers said firmly. "The nukes aren't armed to detonate until they're airborne." Finally, the president swiveled to face his advisers. Their obvious unity was infectious and had the clear markings of an emerging policy change.
Macklin took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. "I'll stand by your recommendation," he said in a quiet voice, "but we better be prepared for the consequences." Chalmers gave the president a forced smile. "You made the right decision, sir."
Macklin shrugged his shoulders in resignation. "Like you pointed out, I don't have a choice. Now, what's your next step?"
"I plan to reposition two more mine countermeasures ships to the Gulf, just in case the Iranians attempt to blockade the Strait of Hormuz. I'm also going to assign another five ships to Destroyer Squadron 50 and station an additional attack submarine in the Gulf and one in the Gulf of Oman."
The president nodded in silent approval.
"We'll make the operation appear to be routine, then go on alert just before our submarines initiate their attack on the missile sites. The skippers have their orders, and they're en route to the Gulf of Oman."
Macklin gave him a questioning look. "Do you think it's wise to commit to this plan with just one battle group in the Gulf?"
"Yes, sir. Roosevelt and her battle group are en route to the northern Arabian Sea if we need additional firepower. We'll be able to counter any retaliation from Iran--against our forces stationed in the area, or our allies."
"With just two battle groups?" the president asked with a look of skepticism in his eyes.
"We'll have more than two carrier air wings and their escorts. I intend to use F-15s and 16s from Turkey and Saudi Arabia to assist in providing air cover for the carrier groups." The president worked hard to keep his concerns from showing. "Realistically, what kind of resistance can we expect?"
Chalmers paused when he noticed the anxiety written on Macklin's face. -They'll probably scramble fighters and their guided-missile patrol boats. Another thing that could be a problem is the threat of their cruise missiles, SAMs, and surface-to-surface missiles. It's a concern, but we expect to successfully counter any type of retaliation."
"How can you be so sure?" the president queried with undisguised apprehension. "We're already in an undeclared war with Tehran."
"Sir, they're going to be caught off guard in the early hours of the morning. We have battle groups operating in the Gulf on a regular basis, plus we have scores of other ships patrolling the Gulf, so our presence isn't going to appear to be anything other than business as usual."
"Are the other chiefs in total agreement with you?" Macklin inquired.
"To a person, and our intel people at Rand are onboard." "Think-tankers," the president mused without any warmth. "Hartwell, what's your assessment? Will the Iranians put up any resistance?"
The line of Prost's mouth became grimly straight. "They have the capability to inflict a lot of damage," he answered coldly. "Will they? None of us can answer that question." Chalmers smiled to himself and looked at Macklin. "As usual, Mr. Prost makes a good point. That's why we're not going to take an invasion-size force into the Gulf. We're going to make it look like a routine training exercise--business as usual."
"Okay, you're the expert," the president said in a resigned voice. "However, I want the rules of engagement to be simple," he asserted. "If the Iranians show hostile intent, our folks are free to defend themselves."
Chalmers suppressed a grin. "I'll make that very clear." "One other thing, Les."
"Sir?"
"After the contrast between the Gulf War and the Balkans fiasco, the American public expect a quick, decisive operation with few civilian casualties." Cord Macklin rose from his chair. "Although we have overwhelming firepower and technical supremacy, we're not invincible. Let's keep that in mind--no mistakes."
Chalmers straightened, surprised that anyone would question his professional competence. "Sir, with all due respect, we haven't forgotten the lesson of Vietnam."
"We can't afford to," Macklin declared.
"Yes, sir," Chalmers said firmly as he rose from his chair. "If you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
"Sure."
The president waited until the
general left the Situation Room. "Pete, do you think we should consult with the congressional leadership before we take any action?"
"I wouldn't advise it, sir. If this leaked to the media before the strike, it could have disastrous results."
"You're right," Macklin replied, then rubbed his chin. "You can't keep anything secret in this town."
"My recommendation," Adair continued, "would be to notify the speaker and majority leader while our weapons are en route to their targets. The same with our allies." "Hartwell?" the president asked.
"I concur."
Macklin leaned back and studied the ceiling before closing his eyes. "Why do I have an uneasy feeling?"
The question went unanswered.
Outwardly, the president showed a steely calm, the years of military discipline and fighter-pilot bravado coming to play. Inwardly, he didn't feel comfortable with his decision. Macklin opened his eyes and stared straight ahead. "Well, if we're going to champion freedom and democracy, we sure as hell can't cower in fear."
Suddenly General Chalmers reappeared at the door. "Mr. President, my aide just informed me that there's been a major crash at DFW."
The stunning news caused a moment of hesitation among the solemn-faced men. Everyone looked to Macklin.
"Turn on the television," the president ordered as Adair reached for the remote-control unit.
"He said the plane was bound for National," Chalmers continued, "and apparently crushed shortly after takeoff." Transfixed, the men stared at CNN's live coverage of the accident scene west of Interstate 35 East. Although it was early evening in Dallas, the sky was so dark and hazy that motorists had been forced to turn on their headlights. In spite of the rain, wind, and reduced visibility, it was obvious that no one could have survived the crash. The entire airplane had simply disappeared in a muddy, smoking hole.
Moments later the president's personal phone rang. Adair walked to the phone and answered the call, then listened in shocked disbelief while Fraiser Wyman told him the sad news about Senator Travis Morgan and the Washington contingent of terrorist experts.
Primary Target (1999) Page 10
