The Ghost of Flight 666

by Christopher Anderson

  “Oetari my friend, salaam,” Ataturk said using the common Muslim greeting.

  “Salaam,” Oetari replied politely.

  “We have a problem Patra, a very large problem.”

  “I’m listening,” the president said, knowing what to expect.

  “It is the assassination of my nephew,” Ataturk told him gravely.

  “I understand Mustafa,” Oetari said quickly, trying to sooth the sensitive situation. “No one regrets the action more than I. Yet how could I, how could even my troops have known that he would be there with the ISIS people, Al Qaeda and Iran? Not only did we have no way of knowing but there was no possibility of expecting such a thing. Regardless, you have our heartfelt condolences.”

  “I know you are sincere in that Patra, and you are right, there is no way to expect that Turgut would be there—he was an impetuous boy, always impatient for the next great thing,” Ataturk sighed. After a pregnant pause his voice dropped down a grave octave. “However, you know our people. You understand our people.”

  “I do,” Oetari said quickly.

  “Then you understand the emotions involved. My family has been attacked. My relative has been attacked. My family demands Qissas, the law of equality in punishment; a life for a life. That presents a problem.”

  “Surely that is for a premeditated killing Mustafa,” replied the president, who having grown up in Muslim society knew the customs well. “This was an accident.”

  “Your sniper sending a bullet through young Turgut’s eye was no accident,” the president said bluntly. He sighed audibly, and then with a still serious but more understanding tone, said, “Put yourself in my place. No matter how much guilt Turgut deserves for putting himself in harm’s way do you really think in the present atmosphere that my family, or my country, will view this in any other way?”

  “What about forgiveness?” Oetari asked. “The United States will pay the Diyah, blood money, to wipe away the Qissas.”

  “Again, do you really think anyone in the Islamic world is in a forgiving mood right now?” Again there was a long pause. When Ataturk spoke again there was a heavy sense of gravity. “If this were a personal situation it would be solvable; I can control my family. However, this is more. It is a political situation. The Islamists faction is much stronger than the secular factions in the Grand National Assembly.

  “Normally the Constitutional Court would intervene with any anti-secular party—they are no longer doing so. There are now Islamists on the bench and the secular judges are, quite frankly, frightened. The Islamists and jihadists are a problem in my country.”

  “Is that why your tanks are sitting on the border with Syria and watching ISIS slaughter the Kurds?” Oetari snapped, irritated at being lectured by a fellow president.

  “What do I care about the Kurds?” Ataturk replied bluntly. “They are a problem here as well. Let ISIS kill them, and then we can kill ISIS.”

  “So you will help against ISIS?”

  “After the Kurdish problem is solved—yes. However, we first have to solve this problem with Turgut’s assassination.”

  Oetari paused, but finally asked, “What is it you want?”

  “I want the name of the man who pulled the trigger.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking of sending your people after him are you? Convict him in absentia. He will never go to Turkey—would that satisfy you?”

  “I do not need to involve Turkey in such a way with a NATO partner; you need not worry Oetari. Your sniper targeted other people in that meeting. They are just as interested as I in knowing who the killer is. The beauty of it is they have already threatened your military personnel.”

  Oetari thought for a long moment. “I cannot give you the name, of course, that goes without saying.”

  “Then, as I said, we have a problem.”

  “Mustafa, you are asking me to expose an agent on assignment.”

  “Patra, it is done all the time. The world is our chess board. We barter these warriors like pawns.”

  Oetari was very careful in his choice of words. He had Ataturk’s attention. “This is too important a matter to deal with over the phone. I will send my personal confidant Mr. Waters to you.”

  The President of Turkey understood perfectly. “I will try and defuse the situation here,” Ataturk told him, satisfied for the moment. “However, if Mr. Waters comes armed with only an apology I will have no choice but to be very public with my comments. Things will take a decidedly bad turn.”

  “I understand.”

  #

  Director MacCloud glowered at Freddy Waters. Waters for his part avoided the FBI Director’s eyes and hid behind Jeffries.

  Gann sidled up next to MacCloud, and said, “We’ve fallen a long way, having a domestic terrorist in the White House with access to the president. But you look like you’re taking it personally.”

  MacCloud clenched his teeth and scowled. “It’s very personal. I’m the reason he’s here.”

  Gann’s expression was enough to spur MacCloud to continue. “We had Waters dead to rights for murder, terrorism, plotting a violent overthrow of the government—everything.”

  “He got off on a technicality—I remember—the FBI mole was not operating on a warrant so all of the evidence was flushed.”

  “Waters was the worst they had. He had a grand plan for a global communist world, including the elimination of those who couldn’t be re-educated. Marx was his Jesus. He wanted to implement that game plan to the letter, even if it resulted in millions of people being—eliminationed.”

  “We’ve both dealt with scum like this all of our careers,” Gann asked. “What about Waters rubs you so raw?”

  “I was the mole,” MacCloud told him.

  Gann was astonished, but there was no time for further consideration. The secretary announced, “The president will see you now.”

  #

  Oetari called his secretary to let his cabinet members into the Oval Office. As they entered he reorganized his thoughts, reminding himself of the subject of the meeting. “So the Malaysians have lost an airliner. Not to be unsympathetic, but why should I care about an aviation tragedy? Regrettable as it is, what is it you want me to do? There are already recovery operations ongoing.”

  “Mr. President we’ve briefed you concerning the captain of the aircraft,” Director Gann reminded the president. There was a hint of reproach in his normally calm voice. “He is an Al Qaeda sympathizer. We’ve discovered that a deadheading pilot was not employed by Malaysian Airlines but was actually a plant, an Al Qaeda operative. There were also two Iranians travelling with stolen passports. The aircraft disappears and there is no wreckage. That constitutes a potential situation.”

  “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “If you’ll consult the daily briefings of the last week you will see we touched on it repeatedly,” Gann said diplomatically.

  “If it’s important then maybe you should do more than “touch on it” Director Gann,” the president complained. “Obviously you didn’t prioritize the information, but go on, what about the captain and the Iranians? Do you think they pulled an Egypt Air?”

  Director Gann bit his lip, not mentioning the cost of the CIA brief in sweat and blood—quite literally. He knew his president. Oetari, for whatever reason, was not one to read the intelligence briefings but at the same time he didn’t want anyone to realize he hadn’t read them. Therefore, Gann had to tread carefully in order to get his point across and more importantly in order for the president to approve any and all necessary actions.

  “Mr. President, I would be only happy to report that we had another suicide, but I’m afraid we’re looking at a more sinister scenario.”

  “Which is?”

  “We believe there’s a strong possibility that the aircraft was hijacked.”

  The president didn’t hide his surprise. “What on earth for? We haven’t had any hostage demands—nothing. The airplane simply disappeared.” He shook his head and c
huckled without humor. “I know it’s your job to be paranoid about certain things but really Gann, aside from a captain with questionable politics, someone getting a free ride by impersonating a pilot and two poor Iranians just trying to get out of Malaysia, and really who can blame them, what do you have to go on?”

  Gann laid three sets of photos on the president’s desk. He pointed to the first photo, which showed a group of about a dozen men sitting around a simple table. They held iPads, which seemed out of place considering the obvious rural Middle Eastern furnishings. Two of the men’s heads were circled.

  “The photo was taken in northern Iraq a week ago by a Cobra team. The man in uniform is Colonel Nikahd, the head of the Special Operations branch of the Iranian Republican Guard. The other man, the one with the burns,” the president interrupted him.

  “Khallida—right, one of the masterminds of Nine-Eleven and the follow-on operation “Wave of Allah,” correct?” When Gann nodded, the president pointedly said, “I know you guys don’t think I ever read those briefs, but on occasion I do.”

  “Yes sir,” Gann replied, but before he continued, Oetari held up his hand, an ashen look on his face. He put his finger on the chest of a young man in tribal garb.

  “That’s Turgut! This is the meeting where he was murdered!”

  “Yes Mr. President, we’ve spoken about that; he was unfortunately collateral damage.”

  “Collateral damage my ass,” Freddy Waters muttered under his breath.

  Everyone looked at him. Freddy shrugged, but Director MacCloud couldn’t restrain himself anymore. “Mr. President, I must protest the presence of Mr. Waters. He doesn’t have the clearance required to discuss national security matters of this nature. He does not have the need to know.”

  “I say he does.” The president said, glancing up at MacCloud. “Do you have a problem with Mr. Waters being here?”

  “I do indeed Mr. President,” MacCloud asserted. “He is a known domestic terrorist, a murderer and an enemy of this nation. I absolutely protest his presence!”

  “He is one of the most respected members of this nation’s academia Director MacCloud,” the president said icily. “He demonstrated against the Vietnam War, as did many people, and his actions were directed toward peace not violence. That is possibly why he shows distaste at the “collateral damage” Director Gann so blithely points out. It was a human life snuffed out unnecessarily and tragically.”

  The president thought for a moment, and then, cocking his head to the side, he turned to Gann. “That reminds me,” Oetari said, a scowl crossing his face. “This Cobra snafu still doesn’t sit well with me. It was a Delta Force operation, but wasn’t that the sniper was one of your men Gann?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “So it was actually CIA that assassinated the nephew of President Ataturk—correct?”

  The room grew thickly silent.

  Gann turned ashen. “It was a clean operation sir.”

  “Who was the triggerman?”

  “Sir, every target was properly vetted,” Gann insisted.

  “Who was he?”

  After a long pause, Gann said, “I cannot mention his name for obvious reasons Mr. President. The information is in your briefing.”

  Oetari paged through his iPad. He found a picture and waved Gann over, “Is this him in the airplane holding the rifle?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “He is over zealous,” Oetari frowned, making a note on his desk. “Director Gann this isn’t a James Bond movie,” the president said impatiently, “Perhaps this agent should be assigned something more benign. He’s sitting in the airplane’s cockpit, does that mean he’s a pilot?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well then assign the case of the missing Malaysian jet to him. There’s nothing to it. Maybe, it will keep your agent from murdering anymore innocent civilians.”

  Gann steamed, but all he could do was accept the assignment. “Yes sir, but I haven’t finished briefing you on the importance of the missing aircraft.”

  “I’m sure your agent will uncover the nefarious plot behind the crash. Goodness knows aviation accidents don’t happen without some kind of terrorist plot behind them! Brief me when you’ve figured that out.” He stood up. “That will be all, ladies and gentleman,” Oetari said. As they began to file out, he looked at Waters. “Except for you Freddy.”

  Gann and MacCloud exchanged suspicious glances but they had no choice but to leave.

  The cabinet members cleared the Oval Office. Oetari got up and went over to the window, looking out as he often did over the well-manicured lawn. He said simply, “You need to fly to Ankara and pay my respects to President Ataturk. I need to make sure our NATO ally understands how seriously we take the murder of his nephew.”

  Freddy Waters walked over to the president’s desk. While the president’s back was turned he took out his iPhone and snapped a picture of the screen. It was a photo of a group of men gathered in front of an OV-10 Bronco. In the cockpit was a man holding a sniper rifle. The names of the men were printed beneath their photos.

  “I will be sure to express my sincere condolences to President Ataturk, Mr. President.”

  “Your meeting with the President of Iran appeared to go well,” he ventured. “Aliaabaadi is willing to consign half his enriched Uranium to a United Nations storage facility in Abu Dhabi—correct?”

  “He understands the gravity of the situation and is willing to provide the Uranium as collateral for their peaceful intentions.”

  “He seems rather quick to give up half his proposed arsenal,” Oetari mused. “I didn’t expect that.” He thought for a moment, then glanced at Waters, who had already finished his espionage and put away his camera, just as the president expected. Oetari frowned. “What do you think he’s up to?”

  “I think he’s sincere Mr. President,” he replied. When Oetari’s expression turned incredulous, Freddy added, “Oh, I’m sure the Iranians mean to finish their nuclear research and as President Aliaabaadi put it, “Join the club.” That’s fine. They need that capability to counterbalance Israel.”

  “That’s obvious,” the president replied tersely. He looked outside again. Aloud, he summarized his view of the Middle East—his sincere view—one he simply could not articulate publicly. “When the Iranians, the Turks, Pakistani’s, Egyptians and Saudis clean out the scum like ISIS and Al Qaeda and form their Caliphate we will finally have stability in the region. Whether Israel is still there remains to be seen. Considering their nuclear arsenal I don’t think they’re going anywhere.

  “Still, the Muslims will then have a stable civilization. This terrorism that pervades Islam will disappear once they have something to counterbalance the West. Aliaabaadi and Hayayi in Iran are the key players. That means they can either build this Caliphate or destroy it. I’m nervous about Aliaabaadi. He’s ruthless. I can’t be certain he’s being straight with us about this Uranium business.”

  “What could he possibly do with three tons of the stuff when it’s not ready to be put in a bomb?” Waters noted. “The Uranium is worth nothing as a bomb now; it is worth more as collateral to him because it gives him time to jockey for position. He’s got to get all these nations in line and the Islamists are not helping.”

  “The Islamists are an aberration,” Oetari said firmly. “They will fade away and be forgotten.” He turned back to Waters and nodded. “For the time being we must placate the Islamist factions. President Ataturk needs our help. You’d better go now; the situation in Turkey is nearing crisis mode,” Oetari told Waters. “Have a good trip Freddy.

  CHAPTER 13: Georgetown

  Slade loved the opera almost as much as Helen did. It gave them a chance to dress to the nines, have a fancy dinner and listen to music—it was a date night—they looked forward to it.

  Tonight it was Don Giovanni. As the last haunting lines of Mozart’s damnation faded to applause, Slade and Helen joined in the ovation and took their time exiting the opera house. As usual
it had been a pleasant, relaxing night; they both looked forward to the next night out—another three months away.

  “Thank you for taking me Jeremiah,” Helen told him, latching onto his arm. “It’s very sweet of you.”

  “It’s all about my ego dear,” he replied. “I love to be seen with the most beautiful woman in the theater on my arm.”

  “We make a good looking couple,” she smiled.

  “My sister told us that twenty-something years ago after we went skinny dipping,” he teased.

  She colored, slapping his arm playfully. Then she sighed.

  “What is it?”

  They were stepping into the elevator with a lot of people. Everyone else was talking about the opera. Helen waited, hugging his arm closer.

  A couple twenty years their senior looked at them and smiled. They must have assumed Slade and Helen were married; they both wore rings. The lady ventured, “Out for an evening without the kids?”

  “Yes,” Helen smiled.

  “How many dear?”

  “Six.”

  “Six, oh my you do need a break,” she laughed. “I was done after four!”

  The elevator door opened. She touched Helen’s arm as they exited first, “You’re such a sweet couple. Maybe we’ll see you at the next opera. Good night!”

  Helen and Slade walked to the Jaguar in slow measured steps. She finally answered his question. “We’re not a couple Jeremiah.”

  “That bothers you?”

  “It should bother you,” she said.

  “Why?” he replied.

  “Because you’re still young,” she said. “My life is my children. You still have the possibility of marriage and your own family.”

  “So what are you and the kids?”

  “I’m your cousin and they are my children,” she said heavily. “We can’t change that fact as much as I want to.”

  “You’re determined to ruin our evening,” he told her stoically, opening the car door for her. She got in, and Slade went around to the other side. After he was in, closing the Jag’s door with a satisfactory thump, he put his hand on her knee. She covered his hand with her own.