As the president's chief of staff continued to explain the tragic situation, Adair took an involuntary half step backward and went numb, thinking that Wyman must have made a mistake.
A moment later raw logic sobered Adair. He glanced at his wristwatch, then stared at it in silence; the Iranian deadline for the commencement of U. S. troop withdrawals had long passed.
With the United States on the brink of open conflict with Iran, the tragic death of Senator Morgan and the other terrorist experts wasn't a coincidence. The reprisals had begun. Adair's mind raced to make sense of the situation. Someone--maybe Khaliq Farkas--murdered them.
"Hold on a second," Adair said, then cupped the phone receiver in his hand and turned to face Macklin. "Mr. President, I don't think we have to be concerned about our plans triggering retaliation from the terrorists."
Macklin slowly turned and gave Adair a puzzled look. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"The terrorists just declared war on us," Adair said as a frown creased his forehead. "We're looking at the results of the first salvo. Travis Morgan and a group of terrorist experts were on that plane."
"Damn," Prost suddenly blurted. "Dalton and Sullivan were booked on the same flight, but canceled to wait for a call from me."
Silence suddenly filled the room as all eyes again turned to the president.
"Farkas?" Macklin asked.
"It's highly possible," Prost replied.
Overwhelmed with grief and anger, the president's eyes reflected blazing fury. "If it's true, they've made a serious mistake." Macklin's rage was reaching the boiling point when he looked at General Chalmers. "If this crash was the work of terrorists supported by Iran, I want those gutless cowards to pay a severe penalty."
Chalmers nodded his head. "They will, Mr. President. They will."
Global Response Center, McLean, Virginia Behind a heavy door on the nondescript sixth floor of the CIA headquarters, the stunning revelation about Khaliq Farkas had sent a chill through the command post for clandestine war on terrorism. While computer screens flashed dispatches and warnings, secure phones rang with alerts from operatives at overseas locations. With its array of video monitors and high-tech workstations, the antiterrorism center looked remarkably like a state-of-the-art military command center. A small group of dedicated analysts studied dozens of up-to-the-minute spy-satellite photographs while nineteen counterterrorism specialists monitored the continuous flow of highly classified information about the whereabouts of Farkas and other widely known terrorists.
In a secluded executive conference room, the director of the CIA spoke by secure phone to a senior foreign intelligence official. The conversation was loud and strained. No one, not even field operatives who observed Farkas on a daily basis, could explain how he was still in Tehran at the same time as he was seen flying an A-4 Skyhawk in Wyoming. Embarrassed by the professional blunder, the director finally had to admit that Farkas had deceived them once again. His stand-in was a carbon copy.
Chapter 14
Athens, Greece.
After spending an exhausting night in Dallas, Scott and Jackie arrived at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport late the next morning. Pressed for time, they hurriedly packed their gear and caught a flight to Kennedy International Airport. With only minutes to spare before departure time, they boarded Olympic Airways Flight 412 bound for Athens and immediately fell into a deep sleep. The bright sun was high overhead when their Olympic Airways 747 landed at the international airport. Using passports and credentials provided by the CIA, they quickly cleared customs and secured transportation from the airport, then checked into a luxury hotel with a spectacular view of the Acropolis.
While Jackie unpacked her luggage and indulged herself with a warm bath, Scott took the time to thoroughly inspect one of his custom-designed black parachutes. The chute's rectangular "ramair" canopy provided Dalton a high degree of control and accuracy after a precision free fall. Using night-vision goggles, and a wrist-mounted Global Positioning System satellite navigation instrument, Scott consistently landed within three feet of his target.
After a quick shave and shower, Dalton called Hartwell Prost and received a thorough brief on the status of the pre- positioned equipment needed for the rescue mission. They also covered emergency contingencies and, once again, the subject of identification. Scott and his team would go in sterile. No one would carry any form of ID or wear any type of identifying jewelry or clothing.
In addition, all articles of clothing and footwear had to be free of identifiable tags or logos. As far as the White House and the Agency were concerned, Scott, Jackie, and Greg were mercenaries with no ties to the U. S. government. The two helicopters and the single-engine airplane they had at their disposal were not insured and were not registered with any agency or government. In addition, the Bell LongRangers and the turboprop Cessna Caravan didn't have serial numbers on their airframes or engines. They had been written off as either destroyed or lost at sea.
When he was satisfied that his jump gear was in order, Scott took a leisurely nap, then went to the rooftop restaurant and requested a table with a panoramic view of the city. After he was seated, Scott enjoyed a Chivas and soda while he waited for Jackie. When she entered the elegant dining room, her trim figure and striking good looks stopped a number of conversations. Smiling pleasantly, she caught sight of Scott and spoke quietly to the maitre d' as she walked toward Dalton's corner table.
He rose from his chair and greeted her with an approving smile. Wow. "That's a very nice dress."
"Thank you," she said, noting the warmth of his smile. He seated her, then gave the waiter a slight nod. "How about a drink before dinner?"
"Sure," she said with a hint of a smile. "I could use one." "Rough day?"
"I just can't seem to get the crash off my mind. Every time I think about it, I visualize Eddy's face twisted in sheer ten ron" Jackie's pain was still fresh, but she maintained control of her emotions.
There was a slight pause while Scott considered Jackie's comments. "I know," he said in a comforting voice. "I can't stop thinking about Farkas, the innocent people he killed, and divine intervention--why we were spared at the last moment."
The waiter took her drink order and she turned her attenLion to Scott. "What's the latest from Washington?" she asked in a deliberate attempt to change the subject.
"Greg will be arriving early in the morning. After he gets here, a Navy helo will fly us out to the container ship. Two LongRangers are already onboard the ship."
"Two?"
"That's right. Hartwell believes in having spares whenever possible. And, like we requested, both helos and the jump plane have extended range tanks mounted inside the cabins." "That's a relief," Jackie remarked, smiling vaguely at Scott. "What about my gear and the NVGs?"
"Hartwell assured me that everything you requested is there, including night-vision goggles, plus UHF and VHF radios."
"I'm impressed."
"Hartwell doesn't miss much," Scott declared. "After we drop you off on the ship, Greg and I will continue to Cyprus. The airplane has already been flown to Larnaca and topped off with fuel, so we're ready to launch on arrival."
Jackie smiled at Scott's contagious enthusiasm. "Any problem with getting permission to operate out of the international airport?"
"None whatsoever." The answer was simple and direct, emphasizing his expertise in covert operations. "The State Department explained that we're investigating the feasibility of starting an air-cargo service."
Jackie chuckled. "Surely they don't believe that."
"Hey, it gives everyone plausible deniability if anyone brings something up later. The airplane left the island and never returned. No one knows anything, except that it had a problem and disappeared. End of feasibility study--end of mystery."
"Let's hope it is that simple," Jackie coolly observed while their eyes met briefly.
"It usually is," Scott said as he arched his shoulders in a flexing shrug.
A hint of a smile touched her lips. "Usually--but not always," she challenged. "We can't know the odds."
"I guess I'd have to agree with that." Dalton's expression reflected a sudden concern. "Jackie, what do you think about changing our plans?"
"What?"
"I think we should eliminate the practice run and rendezvous."'
"Why?" she asked with a suspicious frown.
"Intuition," he said with a confident smile. "We need to be unpredictable--just in case someone is telegraphing our movements."
"I can't argue with that," Jackie admitted, eager to launch the rescue effort. "I just hope Maritza is still at the compound."
"So do I," he said firmly. We may be risking our lives for nothing.
She caught his eye. "If one of those crazies has a bad day, she could pay the ultimate penalty before we even get there." Scott recognized the wayward direction her thoughts were taking her. "We have to keep the faith."
"I know," she murmured, understanding yet not liking the situation. "I'm just afraid she might be on her way to Tehran."
Dalton's thoughtful look hinted of compassion. "Unless we receive new information from Maritza, we have to assume that she's still there. I know she's a personal friend, but we can't afford to become distracted by what could happen."
Her eyes narrowed. "What would you do if Greg O'Donnell was in Maritza's place?"
"I'd follow my own advice," he replied easily, not rising to the obvious challenge. "I'd concentrate on doing my job right and try to increase the chances of succeeding."
They paused while Jackie's drink was delivered to the table.
"You have a point," she agreed, then looked him in the eye. "I'll be there when you need me," she said confidently. "I won't let you down."
"If I had any doubts about you, I wouldn't be here." Scott paused while another couple was seated nearby, then changed the subject. "Hartwell gave me an update on Farkas," he said in a hushed voice. "A security camera caught him on video at DFW."
"And?"
"Apparently, he feigned car trouble on the perimeter of the airport and hitched a ride with the driver of an airline catering truck."
"That figures," Jackie lamented.
"Since he was wearing an airline captain's uniform," Scott continued, "and had an official-looking ID badge, the driver never questioned anything. He drove the little bugger right through a service gate, then drove him to the boarding bridge leading to the cockpit of Flight 1684. According to a baggage handler who was near the jet, Farkas got out of the truck and leisurely sauntered up the stairs, then entered the jetway and boarded the plane."
"Wait a second." Her eyes studied his with a certain skepticism. "He would've needed a key, or some kind of code, to enter the jetway. You can't just walk up and open the door."
Scott eyed her and glanced around the room. "We're talking about the master," he reminded her with unabashed ease. "The bag smasher said the guy used a key to enter the jetway. Farkas obviously had done his homework."
"Or," Jackie asserted, "someone did his homework for him. It's amazing what money will buy these days."
"Yeah, that's true. The guy who saw Farkas went on loading bags and didn't think anything else about it. After Farkas planted the explosive--they believe it was Semtex, his favorite--he came back down the outside stairs and walked through the baggage-handling area. That's where the security camera tagged him. Once he cleared the area, he entered the concourse and probably wasn't far from us when he triggered the bomb."
"Amazing," she said with restless energy. "Absolutely amazing. How did he get out of Dallas?"
"No one knows."
"Did they find the A-4?"
"No," Scott said lamely. "They checked every airport within two hundred miles. No one saw anything that even vaguely resembled an A-4. My guess is he flew to Dallas in a run-of-the-mill plane."
"He might have arrived on a commercial flight," Jackie said as she attempted to conceal her frustration.
"I doubt it." Scott shrugged. "That would present too much of a risk, and he wouldn't have been able to manage his time as well."
A frown crossed Jackie's face. "I can't believe he just vanished after our accident."
"Neither can I. The taxi--or what was left of it--was found about a mile from where we were, but he hasn't been seen since."
"That figures," she said, then absently stirred her drink with the straw. "Did Hartwell have anything to say about the crash?"
"Yes. They listened to a copy of the ATC tapes--from the tower and departure control. The first officer was in mid-sentence with the controller when the bomb was detonated. I have no doubt that the bomb was in or near the cockpit, because it incapacitated the pilots and instantaneously destroyed the radios. Forty-six seconds later the airplane slammed into the ground at approximately 380 miles an hour."
Scott reached for his drink. "Hartwell believes Farkas was going for a trifecta; he planned to bring down an airliner, kill a major segment of our terrorist experts, and take us out at the same time."
They remained silent for almost a minute, both thinking about how close they had come to dying.
Jackie finally broke the silence. "We have to stop him," she urged in mild outrage.
"I understand your feelings," Scott said patiently. "I feel the same way, but right now our job is to rescue Maritza. She may be able to give us a lot of information about Farkas, including where we might find him."
Noticing the concerned look in Jackie's eyes, Scott gave her a brief smile. "As we speak, the FAA, the FBI, the Counterterrorist Center, the Army's Delta Force, and the Navy's Dev Group--the Naval Special Warfare Development Group, formerly known as SEAL Team Six--are working round the clock to locate Farkas. We'll concentrate on finding him as soon as we get Maritza out of the camp. Like I said, she may know where we can find him."
Jackie nodded. "If she knows that, she may know how they plan to assassinate the president."
"Yeah, that's a possibility." Scott casually glanced around the dining room before turning his attention back to Jackie. "Oh, I almost forgot. Hartwell gave me one other tidbit of information about Farkas."
"I hope it's good," she said with a lazy smile.
"Well, it gives us an idea of how he operates."
"And?"
"The FBI checked the ATC tapes from Salt Lake Center, Denver, Minneapolis, Kansas City, Chicago, and Indianapolis Center. From the time the witnesses said that Farkas took off from Casper, every jet the controllers handled for the next three hours was checked out and located, including a Sabre-liner that wasn't flying that day. It was undergoing maintenance at its base in Houston."
"The phantom corporate jet," Jackie said in mild disbelief, then sent a glance heavenward.
"That's right," Scott declared. "The controllers said it sounded like the Sabre pilot was wearing an oxygen mask. Since he hadn't declared an emergency, they didn't question why he was wearing it at 37,000 feet."
Jackie shook her head in frustration. "Let me guess--no crews identified their traffic as being an A-4 Skyhawk? No one corrected the controllers?"
"Yup. From what the FAA and FBI have reconstructed, the A-4 was in and out of the clouds most of the time." "Where did he land?"
"He was filed for Charleston, West Virginia, but he canceled 1FR approximately ninety miles west of the city and disappeared. Where he went is anyone's guess, but the feds are scouring the airports in the area."
"I wish them lots of luck." She gazed into his eyes. "Regardless of how this operation turns out, I want to thank you for helping us."
"You can thank me later," he said with a radiant smile, then leaned closer to her. "We're going after Maritza tomorrow night, twenty-four hours early, so you better send her the signal tonight after midnight."
Jackie's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Are you going to tell Hartwell about our change in plans?"
"No," he admitted reluctantly.
Jackie gave him a curious look. "You trust him, don't you?"
>
"With my life," Scott said without hesitation. "But I don't know who might be pumping him for information."
"Good point," she said in a tempered voice, then raised her glass. "To Maritza Gunzelman, and a successful rescue." Scott stared into Jackie's eyes and felt the blood surge through his veins. "To a successful mission."
Chapter 15
USS Hampton.
Resting in the quiet darkness of his private cabin, Navy I 'Commander Robert Gillmore dozed fitfully as Hampton silently slipped through the cold depths of the Indian Ocean northeast of Madagascar. With the exception of the slowerthan-usual transit through the narrow Strait of Gibraltar, the long voyage from the Mediterranean to the Gulf of Oman was progressing smoothly.
Operating alone and undetected, the Los Angeles--class nuclear attack submarine was nearing its destination. Gillmore and his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Todd Lassiter, were the only men aboard the "boat" who were privy to their secret orders. The rest of the crewmen were aware that the captain was deviating somewhat from standard procedures, but the officers and sailors didn't speculate on the nature of their mission, at least not openly. They knew the cerebral, tight-lipped skipper was not a man who tolerated scuttlebutt.
Bob Gillmore was a tall man who stooped to pass under normal doorways. In spite of his imposing size, he was adroit at navigating the narrow passageways in Hampton. His soft brown eyes peeked from under bushy eyebrows, and his thinning, sandy-colored hair was rarely out of place. Even in the confines of a cramped submarine, Gillmore seemed always to be immaculate and clean-shaven.
His quarters, no larger than steerage-class accommodations onboard a passenger ship, provided him with the only space he could call his own, his small kingdom away from home. To Gillmore, being here was like sitting in his living room in Groton, Connecticut--completely still, without even the slightest hint of motion. It was the only haven in the boat where he could relax and lose himself in the masterpieces of Count Leo Tolstoy.
Gillmore, a distinguished graduate of the U. S. Naval Academy and a third-generation submariner, was considered by his superiors to be one of the best and brightest skippers in the silent service. Unlike his colorful and gregarious father, Bob Gillmore drank sparingly, ate a healthy diet, and exercised on a regular basis. On duty, or at home with his family, he spent the majority of his time focused on the next hurdle in his highly competitive career. His primary goal in life centered on becoming the chief of naval operations. To that end, the seasoned technocrat-manager was an excellent career planner. He carefully labored over every decision and how it might affect his future. As the admiral at La Maddalena had clearly explained, this operation would have to be flawlessly executed. The translation for Gillmore was abundantly clear; bungle the mission and your first afloat command will be your last. His future would be in the civilian world, not at the helm of an $870 million nuclear submarine.
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