“Sure,” J. J. said. “I think we’re safe now.” J. J. sat on the floor and lowered his head onto his knees. Just a few minutes ago twenty of the world’s leaders were within seconds of death.
“You okay, pal?”
“Peachy,” J. J. said. “Just peachy.”
ERMANNO GRECO RECEIVED THE radio call as he banked his F2 Typhoon to the west. To his left, from an area just a mile or so from the coast and the Miramare Hotel Grande, rose a thick coil of black smoke. Ermanno could see orange-red flame scratching at a nearby business. A half dozen fires blocked the streets. A few blocks further south, flashing red lights told the pilot something else was going on—something bad.
He resisted the urge to fly over the area. He had been given a mission, and nothing else mattered. Ermanno throttled up.
“Feet wet,” he said as his craft crossed over the shore and streaked over the ocean. He spoke with a casualness that belied the pounding of his heart.
He had been given a detailed description and had no trouble finding the long, white yacht racing on a collision course with the marina on the ocean side of the hotel. Gunboats from the Italian navy bore down on the vessel from the south and the north. Each had twin 50-caliber rapid fire cannons on the bow. In moments they would be in range to open fire.
Ermanno eased the stick forward, lowering the nose, and set his sights on the yacht. He strained his eyes to see who, if anyone, stood at the wheel. He was too high and moving too fast to make a determination. He had no trouble, however, seeing the twenty or so people on the deck frantically waving at him. Their behavior made clear their terror.
Ermanno radioed base. “The yacht carries about twenty people. I think they’re trapped onboard.”
He was told to make another pass. As he did, several of the men and women pressed their hands together as if praying. They were pleading for help.
Nausea began to burn his stomach. He feared the order that might come his way.
On the next pass the northernmost gunboat reached the yacht and fired a round of tracers over the bow. The yacht continued on course and gave no sign of slowing.
“Flight Command, Eagle Two, the gunboats have fired warning shots. No change.” He imagined someone on the gunboats was giving the same report to their superiors.
“Standby Eagle Two.”
Seconds dripped by. Ermanno flew a mile out to sea, then began a sharp turn. The g-forces pressed him to the side and back in his seat.
“Eagle Two, you are directed to make a low flyby for observation.”
“Roger. Beginning flyby.”
Ermanno skimmed a hundred feet above the swells of the Bay of Naples. He slowed to just fifty kilometers above his stall speed. This time he could see the fear on the faces of the passengers. Not one looked older than twenty-five. He saw no one at the upper helm. Perhaps the captain was in the control area in the cabin, but if he was, why didn’t the people on deck do anything to stop him?
Pulling back on the stick, Ermanno directed his F2 skyward and reported what he had seen. He was told to circle as support for the gunboats.
His commander didn’t say it, but Ermanno knew what they were thinking. If the gunboats couldn’t stop the craft, then someone would have to blow it out of the water. He guessed that someone would be him.
From his airborne vantage point, Ermanno watched as one of the gunships pulled alongside the yacht. He imagined them trying to make contact, giving orders to pull to and prepare to be boarded. The yacht stayed its course. It could only mean one thing. In less than a mile, the yacht—certainly laden with explosives—would crash into the marina. A boat that size could carry hundreds of pounds of explosives.
“Command, Eagle Two. Advise the gunboats to tell the passengers to jump.” At the speed the yacht traveled, many of them would be injured, and if Ermanno had to do what he knew he would be ordered to do, several might be killed in the water. But it was the only hope they had.
Ermanno had to again direct the jet around in a lazy circle. As much as he could, he kept an eye on the yacht. Another voice came over his head set. “Eagle Two, this is Raven One. I will be at your position in two minutes.”
“Understood, Raven One.” Backup. Just in case I can’t follow his orders.
As he passed the yacht again, he saw people jumping over the side of the yacht. Some seemed reluctant. Two muscular men were lifting anyone that couldn’t muster the courage to leap and tossing them over the side. “Good men,” he whispered. He also caught a glimpse of a woman throwing life vests over the stern. A moment later she launched herself into the water. The two men followed a second behind.
“Command, Eagle Two, craft appears evacuated.”
“Roger that, Eagle Two. We believe the yacht is carrying high explosives. You are cleared to stop the boat. Repeat, stop the boat.”
“I understand I am clear to sink the yacht.”
“Roger that, Eagle Two. Raven One, you are to follow Eagle Two in. Verify.”
“Follow Eagle Two in. Will do.”
Ermanno crossed himself, began a wide turn until he was three miles from his target. He hoped the maneuver would give those in the water a slightly better chance at survival. He dropped his altitude to two hundred feet, powered the throttle, flipped the safety cover off the “pickle”—the flight and weapons stick—and took aim.
He pressed the launch button.
The F2 shivered as the first of two Raytheon Paveway IV 500-pound guided bombs let go of the undercarriage. Ermanno pressed the throttle to the stops and climbed, the acceleration pushing him back in his seat.
He jerked the control stick to the left and turned the aircraft in time to see a rolling, roiling ball of flame expand at unimaginable speeds and scorch the air.
“Command, Raven One, target eliminated. Repeat target is eliminated. Good job, Eagle Two.”
Ermanno crossed himself again. “God help those in the water.”
ABASI SAT IN A room two miles from the hotel that should be pouring smoke from the second floor. He had a clear view of the structure. He pressed the button on the transmitter again, just as he had done fifty times before. Twice he had switched the batteries. His system was foolproof, yet the bomb had not gone off. He was responsible for four suicide bombings. Two had worked as they should, but the one strapped to Delaram’s belly failed. Of the three, it was the only one with a double backup—and yet it failed.
Abasi stepped from the balcony and moved into the bathroom. Bit by bit he dismantled the device and dropped its pieces into the toilet. Several flushes later the defective device was gone.
What would he tell El-Sayyed?
His cell phone sounded.
NASSER SAT ON THE stern of the twenty-foot Catalina sailboat flying a British flag. He wore an Aloha shirt, white shorts, flip-flops, and sunglasses. A beer he hadn’t and wouldn’t sip rested in a drink holder. He looked like any of a thousand pleasure sailors who plied the waters off Naples. Next to him rested a pair of high-powered binoculars, the same binoculars that allowed him to see an Italian jet put an end to his portion of the plan.
“We have failed,” he said into the cell phone.
Abasi answered, “Yes. I will contact the home office.”
“You do that.”
“What are you going to do?”
Nasser switched off his cell phone.
CHAPTER 28
MOYER WATCHED THE PRESIDENT enter the sitting area of his suite from the bedroom. The man looked drawn, pale, and weary beyond his years. Moyer, his team, and the others stood.
“Remain seated.” President Huffington made his way to an upholstered chair. The room was filled with people, many on cell phones.
Moyer studied the president. “How is Mrs. Huffington?”
“Physically she’s fine, but she’s understandably upset. She’s lying down.” Huffington rubbed his forehead. Clearly the man was shaken to the core. Who could blame him? “You know, I took this job knowing that sooner or later some nutcase was going
to try and take me out, but my wife . . .” He gazed at the floor. “Family should be off-limits.” He looked up. “Okay people, I need a little breathing room. Mitchell, you and Brownie stay. Moyer, I would like you and your men to remain as well.”
As though anyone could make them leave the man’s side right now. Moyer’d like to see someone try. “Police Captain Aldo Gronchi has some information for us. So does Captain De Luca.”
“Very well. Everyone else out. I’ll get to the rest of you as soon as I can.”
Even after the others—including the press secretary, valet, and the president’s personal physician—left, the room felt crowded.
“Give me the rundown, Mitchell.”
Mitchell nodded. “A female suicide bomber pulled into a gas station about 1150 local time. Witnesses are still being interviewed, but the short of it is she poured gasoline on the ground and then set off her bomb.”
“Unbelievable. Casualties?”
“Only two others, Mr. President. One witness said she told people to run.” Mitchell looked at his notepad. “At approximately 1155 hours, a bomber entered the crowd of protesters. Forty-five dead; fifty more with life-threatening injuries; 235 wounded and maimed.” He paused. “Those are the early numbers. I suspect they are underestimated.”
Huffington leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Go on.”
“A third attempt at bombing was attempted using a yacht. The bomber had arranged a morning party on the deck. Twenty-five to thirty civilians were on board when the man rigged the yacht to run at top speed. The steering had been compromised. An Italian F2 blew it out of the water before it could reach shore and damage the hotel.”
“Were the people still onboard?”
“No, they jumped before the jet fired. Apparently the Italian navy encouraged them to do so.” Mitchell consulted his notebook again. “Five were killed from the explosion, ten were severely injured. The rest escaped with moderate injuries—mostly burns. We think the yacht was loaded with homemade explosives like ammonium nitrate and fuel oil. Experts are analyzing video taken from another jet in the area and the gunboats. We may not know the specifics, but it is certain that the explosion was greater than the plastic explosives would have generated on their own.”
The president drew a deep breath. “This is almost too much to believe. Current status?”
“The facility is secure, the Italian police and military are searching the surrounding buildings. It is doubtful there will be another attack.”
Helen Brown looked at the president. “Nonetheless, I think we need to get you back to the White House, sir.”
Moyer couldn’t say he disagreed.
“That would look like I’m running to the safety of home.”
“No, sir, it won’t.” Helen leaned forward. “I’ve received word from several of my counterparts. Most of the heads of state are returning home. The American people need to know their president is safe.”
Huffington sighed. “I had such high hopes for the meeting. How could that woman get into the building, let alone the meeting room?”
Aldo Gronchi stepped forward. “Mr. President, if I may. The fault is mine.”
“Yours? How so?”
“I believe one of my men may have let her through. We found his body. He killed himself.”
“Why would he do such a thing?”
Moyer studied the police captain. He looked hollow, fragile.
“I am having his home searched, his phone records examined, and interrogating his friends. He has always been a good officer.”
“Maybe they got to him like they got to Delaram,” Zinsser said.
The president looked at him. “That would make your weak link hypothesis right.”
Zinsser shrugged. “I take no joy in it.”
Huffington faced Moyer. “I owe you and your team my life. If that woman had succeeded, there’s no telling what would have happened on the global stage.”
Moyer looked at his men. “The credit goes to J. J. and Zinsser, sir.”
“I will make sure your superiors know of the bravery you’ve shown. There’s a medal in this; I can assure you of that.”
Moyer smiled. “Thank you, Mr. President, but our mission isn’t over. The people behind this won’t stop because they failed today. They’ll continue to slaughter innocent people.”
“But who are they? Islamic fundamentalists? You made it clear the recent bombings were not carried out by religious zealots.”
“That’s right, sir,” J. J. said. “Delaram said she didn’t believe in anything. She was doing this to save her parents.”
“Where is she now?”
Mitchell answered the president. “She’s being held at a local military base. Italian intelligence is interrogating her.”
De Luca spoke for the first time since the president’s entrance into the room. “She is cooperating fully. Of course, she is depressed and worried. Still, she is answering every question.”
“Of course, she’s depressed!” J. J. looked thoroughly disgusted. “She thinks her parents are dead, or as good as dead.”
“Mr. President,” Moyer said. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Name it.”
BOOK II
CHAPTER 29
MOYER HAD NEVER BEEN on Air Force One before, but he decided he could get used to it: comfortable seats and every imaginable amenity. He’d assumed he and his men would sit in the press section of the plane, but the president insisted that they ride in the staff area. The greater part of Moyer wanted to put his feet up and nap the way back to the states—but there wasn’t time.
And he wasn’t going to the states.
He’d spent the last half hour making a mental checklist. The president’s gratitude had given Moyer far greater latitude than he would normally have. First, he requested phone privileges for his men. Air Force One had the best communication equipment in the world. Once airborne, there was no place they couldn’t call. On Moyer’s orders, the men called home in reverse order of their rank, allowing each ten minutes. Spec Ops families had an unhealthy addiction to the news, knowing that any world event might involve their husbands and fathers.
Jose had called his wife and four children, learned that two had the flu and the youngest was teething. “Makes me kinda glad to be on mission.”
Moyer smiled at Jose’s lie.
Pete called his bride of less than a year. J. J. spoke with Tess. Of all the family and loved ones, only Tess would know what was happening. But she was on an unsecured line, so she and J. J. could only speak in euphemisms about his “business trip.”
Rich, the biggest and toughest man Moyer knew, always grew teary when he called home from overseas. No one razzed him. No one dared.
Finally Moyer spent his ten minutes talking to his wife, daughter, and son. Over the last year his daughter had turned thirteen and was showing disturbing signs of womanhood. Boys were calling and, more than once, he’d reminded her how adversely his career would be impacted if he had to start killing her boyfriends. Gina always laughed; Moyer always kept a straight face.
Moyer wanted the boys to understand what he did for a living, but he couldn’t tell them. None of his neighbors knew he was Army. To them, he was just another businessman who lived on their street. Still, he took special joy in speaking to his son. Seventeen-year-old Rob had, with the help of J. J.’s chaplain brother, found his way through the rebellious teenage years. Last year Moyer was sure the divide between him and his son could never be bridged.
After his call, Moyer accepted an offer the president made earlier. Huffington and his wife had retired to the bedroom, leaving the in-flight office open. Helen Brown informed Moyer the room was available.
Stepping into the staff seating area, Moyer nodded to Rich and Zinsser. “You two, you’re with me.”
The men rose from their seats and followed him into the president’s private study. Simulated wood covered the bulkheads. The thick carpet bore the presidential seal. A desk of m
atching wood was situated near the starboard side of the plane and seemed to merge seamlessly into the fuselage. A sofa ran along one of the walls. All the furnishings had been bolted to the deck.
“Have a seat, gentlemen.” Moyer motioned to the sofa. Zinsser and Rich sat.
Rich glanced at the president’s chair. “You gonna?”
“Not in this life, pal. I know my place.” Moyer took one of the guest chairs that faced the desk and turned it so he could face the two. He fixed his eyes on Zinsser. “First, that was a brave thing you did in the hotel, Zinsser. You probably saved a lot of lives—at very least you saved J. J.’s.”
“Thank you, Boss.”
“Don’t thank me, soldier. You did it against my orders.”
“Yes, Boss, I did, but it wasn’t personal.”
Moyer felt his jaw tighten. “Not personal? This team runs on orders—my orders, and in my absence, on Rich’s orders. Is that clear?”
“It is, Boss. Crystal.”
“I could have you up on charges for that bit of rebellion. I could have you bounced out of the service.”
“With all due respect, Boss, you’re going to do that anyway.” He looked at Rich. “I assume—”
“I brought him up to speed about the incident in the field. He’s second in command and as such needs to be appraised of anything that affects this team.”
“Good. Then we can talk freely.”
“You getting smart?” Rich’s tone was menacing.
“No way. I don’t mean to sound flippant, but let’s face it, guys. What I did in that field eclipses my skirting an order to evacuate the scene in the hotel. My career ended a couple of days ago.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, it ended in Kismayo.”
Moyer leaned back, torn between backhanding the man and putting a comforting arm around him. “How bad has it been? The flashbacks, I mean.”
Zinsser shrugged. “They were worse at home. They come and go.”
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