Mather recorded Sandi as she pulled a black silk chador out of the backseat and threw the long cloak over her shoulders. Then she pulled off her high-heel sandals and slipped on a pair of frumpy lace-ups. She tied a dark scarf over her hair and pulled up the hood. She walked across the street and entered the warehouse that had been converted to a mosque.
9:15
A.M.
, Friday, April 23,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
“Oh, shitsky,” Capt. Douglas Holloway muttered when he stepped into mission-planning cell. “This is a biggy.” The room was crowded with every colonel and lieutenant colonel who could think of a reason to be there.
Maj. Mark Terrant stifled the caution that was forming on the back of his tongue about watching his language. After all, this was still the 509th. But Holloway had a great sense of presence and knew when to shut up. Terrant limited himself to “What did you expect when they asked for volunteers?”
McGraw met them and led them to the smaller briefing room where the mission would be covered in detail. “You can decline the mission if you want,” she told them before they entered.
“I assume this is the real thing,” Terrant replied.
“Isn’t it always?” McGraw said.
Holloway gave her his best grin. Other crews had been through this drill before. “Right. If it was for real, Jim West would be beating down the door to take it.” Lieutenant Colonel Jim West was, without doubt, the best mission commander in the wing and an advocate for high-level corridor tactics.
“Col. West is on leave,” McGraw said.
“Just like all staff weenies,” Holloway said. “Never around when the shooting starts. But since we’re not headquarters pukes, we’ll take it.” The implication was obvious: No staff weenie would want to fly in real combat.
“Don’t pay him no never-mind,” Terrant said, not wanting to antagonize McGraw. He knew of her reputation, and her recommendations carried weight in the 509th. “He just thinks he’s the best pilot in the wing.”
“So does the Old Man,” McGraw conceded, now very serious. “Or he wouldn’t be here.”
It was the truth. For all his flippant manner, Doug Holloway was a dedicated bomber pilot. He was a student of the B-2 and probably knew more about the aircraft and its systems than anyone on base except Jim West and Mark Terrant. But there was more. The men were consummate pilots and possessed IQs that bordered on the edge of genius. Physically, Mark Terrant was tall and gangly with red hair. Doug Holloway was shorter, just over five feet ten inches, with dark-brown hair, and built like a highly conditioned athlete, which he was. Both men had narrow-set eyes and perfect vision. Professionally, they were the product of a selection process that had started years before. For Mark Terrant, it had been the Air Force Academy and B-52 bombers, for Doug Holloway, electrical engineering at Stanford University, AFROTC, and fighters.
Because they flew an aircraft that cost $1.3 billion a copy, they had to be solid trustworthy types who were extremely competent pilots. But underneath, at their very core, they were classic alpha personalities and controlled aggression.
The wing commander, the operations group commander, their squadron commander, and the chief of Intelligence were waiting for them in the briefing room. “Gentlemen,” the wing commander began, “I think you all know Maj. Mark Terrant, one of our lead mission commanders, and his pilot, Captain Doug Holloway.” Nods all around. “Well, Mark, Doug, we’ve been tasked to take out a biological weapons factory in the Middle East with conventional weapons. Do you want it?”
Terrant was ready with the standard answer. “Yes, sir.” Not too loud, just the right emphasis.
Holloway couldn’t help himself. “How much of my sex life do I have to give up, sir?”
10:00
A.M.
, Friday, April 23,
Warrensburg, Mo.
FBI Special Agent Mather focused on Sandi Jefferson as she came out of the converted warehouse that served as a mosque for the faithful of Warrensburg. He dutifully recorded the other faces in the crowd, mostly foreign exchange students from Central Missouri State University in town, but he always returned to Sandi. “Who’s that with her?” he asked.
The other agent came over and studied the monitor. “The black guy? That’s her husband. He’s a captain in the Air Force.” They watched in silence as the two stood under a shade tree. A short, dark-complected man with pock-marked skin joined them.
What a toad
, Mather told himself, comparing the newcomer to Sandi’s husband who was trim and well dressed.
“Son of a bitch,” the senior agent growled. “Why are they talking to Khalid?” Mather’s fingers flew over the computer’s keyboard as he logged the date, time, and circumstances surrounding the contact between Osmana Khalid and the Jeffersons.
6:05
A.M.
, Saturday, April 24,
The Farm, Western Virginia
Durant ambled across the campuslike grounds, enjoying the soft morning air. It was a pleasant change after a hectic Thursday and Friday in Washington. But he was still preoccupied with the President’s reactions at the NSC meeting.
What is he going to do?
He paused before entering the building where the Project was housed.
Am I doing the right thing?
he wondered. Then, his mind made up, he walked inside. Except for the security guards, the building was deserted. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and cleared himself onto the balcony overlooking the control center. He sat down in front of the two TV monitors. “Hello, Agnes,” he said.
The right monitor came to life and the woman smiled at him. “Good morning, Mr. Durant,” the computer said. “I’m glad you came back. I missed you.”
“That’s sweet, Agnes,” he replied.
“What’s the weather like?”
“It’s a perfect April morning,” he replied. “But there’s a hint of an early summer. I wish it could stay like this year-round.”
“We are experiencing some unusual heat waves, especially on the West Coast.”
What am I doing?
he thought.
Being sociable and discussing the weather with a computer is crazy
. “Agnes, there’s something I want you to do. Can you find out who was behind the bombing of the San Francisco Shopping Emporium?”
“That shouldn’t be too hard, Mr. Durant. To what level do you want me to search?”
Searching to a prescribed level was new. “I’m sorry, Agnes. I don’t understand.”
“Do you want proof that will stand up in a court of law or do you just want to know who the perps are?”
“Perps?”
The image blushed. “Perpetrators. I’ve been watching TV.”
“Proof, if you can find it. But I’ll settle for the perps.”
Agnes looked serious. “A provisional first search of the FBI data banks reveals nothing conclusive. Those idiots,” she fumed, “they haven’t got a clue. I’ll see what the CIA has.” There was a short pause. “Nothing there. I’ll establish a worldwide communications watch. Someone, somewhere, sometime will start talking. It’s just a matter of time.” Durant stiffened. Agnes had been programmed to target specific communications in conjunction with a request for limited intelligence, not do roving communication intercepts. “I just learned how to do it,” she explained. “I coopted computers in different parts of the world and established communication listening posts. I’ll tell them to be alert for anyone talking about the bombing.”
“Did the whiz kids teach you that?”
She smiled. “No. I worked it out myself. But it does take a lot of energy and time. I had to capture computer space from the Lawrence Livermore Labs.” Her voice turned patronizing. “Those supercomputers are rather obsolete. Massive parallel processing works much better.”
“Agnes, do me a favor and keep all this between you and me, okay?”
The image beamed at him. “Certainly, Mr. Durant. I won’t even tell the children.”
1:20
P.M.
, Saturday, April 24,
The Sudan
The old Soviet-built “Hip” helicopter settled to earth, the seventy-foot rotor kicking up dust and gravel from the desert floor. The swirling blades spun down and the dust subsided over the company of eighty-four men waiting in the hot Saturday sun. Not one moved until the lieutenant called them to attention. As one, the men snapped to with a sharpness totally out of character for them. Sweat streaked their faces and still they did not move. Then the captain got off the helicopter. If anything, the men became more rigid. To the man, they wanted to do this one right.
Capt. Davig al Gimlas stepped to the ground and jammed his beret on at exactly the right tilt. He raked the sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and carefully adjusted them on his prominent nose. The lieutenant stepped forward and, his hand slightly shaking, saluted the tall captain.
At six feet four inches, al Gimlas towered above the lieutenant. Because of a heavy scar on his left cheek that ended above his upper lip, he was clean shaven and could not grow the heavy mustache that was the trademark of the average Arab male. He didn’t need it. He had experienced more combat than any other officer in the Sudanese Army, and in full field gear he could run any soldier into the ground over a thirty-mile trek.
But he was not a mindless military robot. He had been educated at the Sorbonne in Paris and received his military training at Sandhurst, the Royal Military College, in England. He had received a direct commission into the Sudanese Army and had returned to command an outpost in southern Sudan where a full-fledged armed rebellion was going on. In less than six years, he had established a reputation as a brilliant commander and tactician, a humane civilian administrator, and totally above corruption. He was a rarity in Africa.
Capt. Davig al Gimlas was also a legend among the NCOs and enlisted ranks, and they would follow him anywhere. His superiors hated him because he was all that they were not. But when they had an assignment that could not fail, he was the only man they had. Al Gimlas returned the lieutenant’s salute. “Stand down the men,” he ordered. “Get them in the shade and after they’ve had a chance to drink and cool down, I will speak to them. We have a great deal of work and training to do in the next few hours.”
6:45
A.M.
, Sunday, April 25,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Mark Terrant was in the base chapel at the early Sunday service with his wife when the pager clipped to his flight suit vibrated. He glanced down, checked the number, and clicked it off. Barbara Terrant looked at him. She had been an Air Force wife long enough to know what it meant. Without a word, she squeezed his hand. He stood up and stepped into the aisle. But before he left, he bent over and kissed her cheek. “Tell the kids I’ll be back in a few days. I love you.” Then he was gone.
She watched him as he walked out the door. Then she turned back to the altar. “Please, God,” she prayed.
Outside, Terrant sprinted for the blue Air Force pickup he drove while on alert. He jumped inside and drove quickly toward the OSS building without turning on the emergency lights. A block away, the pickup driven by Doug Holloway pulled in behind him, its lightbar flashing. Terrant gave an inward groan.
Doug’s shining his ass again. It must be a fighter pilot thing
.
Inside the OSS building, Lt. Col. McGraw was waiting for them outside the Combat Crew Communications section. “We got a Go,” she said once they were inside the large vault where they had to sign for the classified material they needed to execute the mission. It was a deluge of paperwork that filled two briefcases. She handed them a copy of the Emergency Actions message that authorized them to execute the mission. The two pilots hunched together and read it like co-conspirators. “It’s a valid decode,” she told them.
“Current defenses?” Terrant asked, now concerned with basics.
“As originally briefed,” McGraw answered. She handed them the two digital data unit cartridges that held the mission profile they would download into the B-2’s onboard computers. “Another crew ran your choice through the simulator Saturday evening. They agreed low level is the best way to ingress the target area. It looks like a piece of cake.”
Holloway gave her his best grin as he signed for the cartridges. “That
was
the idea.” He and Holloway had spent most of Saturday in the simulator flying the penetration and attack phase of the mission at both high and low level before deciding on the low-level profile.
“The Wing King is waiting for you at the airplane,” she said. “Good hunting.” The two pilots were out the door where a security cop was waiting to escort them to the waiting aircraft and the wing commander. McGraw breathed a heavy sigh. It had been a hectic 53 hours since the air tasking order message had come in, and she was tired beyond belief. It was time to go home.
6:20
P.M.
, Sunday, April 25,
The Sudan
Capt. al Gimlas glanced at the setting sun and double-checked his GPS receiver against the map to ensure they were at the right location. It all made sense and he was surprised his superiors could issue such a logical order sending him to these specific coordinates. But he sensed they were rapidly running out of time. If the Americans were coming, it would be tonight.
Impatiently, he walked to the edge of the pit and looked down at the four men still digging. He was at the apex of a twelve-foot-deep, cone-shaped hole. The base of the cone, at the bottom of the hole, measured exactly twelve feet across and was almost finished. The unconsolidated
reg
that formed the desert’s surface threatened to collapse the sides of the cone-shaped hole and he stepped back.
Who will volunteer to go down this hellhole?
he thought.
“Lieutenant, ask for volunteers to man the echo chamber. They must have sharp hearing. It will be dangerous.” The lieutenant hurried away to do as ordered while al Gimlas walked over to the Shilka. He directed the Shilka’s commander to park the tanklike vehicle near the pit and slew the four barrels of its antiaircraft cannon skyward. Satisfied it was positioned correctly, he returned to the command and communications tent. “Is the radar operational yet?”
The radio operator took a deep breath. He wanted to tell al Gimlas only good news. “Within the hour.”
Al Gimlas nodded. “And the Stinger teams?”
The operator beamed. Now he had good news. “All six teams are in radio contact and report they are in position.”
Al Gimlas studied the tactical disposition chart tacked to an easel. He considered himself lucky to have six of the deadly, U.S.-built, shoulder-held, antiaircraft Stinger missiles. A black market arms merchant had sold the Sudanese government over fifty of the missiles that the CIA had originally given the rebels in Afghanistan to use in their fight against the old Soviet Union in the 1980s. Now the missiles were showing up all over the world, and al Gimlas had six to use against the country that had made them.
If our information is right
, he told himself,
they must overfly my position
. Not sure how best to deploy the missiles, he had strung them in a long line down the valley that led from his location to the agricultural research laboratory at the head of the valley. He cursed his luck. His superiors had given him an impossible task: Stop the Americans from bombing an isolated and undefended target. But the Americans had the most advanced technology in the world: Cruise missiles, F-15E Strike Eagles, F-117 Stealth fighters, B-1s, or B-2 Stealth bombers. Even the old B-52s were still flying and carrying standoff cruise missiles. What could his poor country do against all of those aircraft and weapons?
All al Gimlas had was the direction the aircraft would come from, the initial point it would overfly on the way to the target, a brand-new S-12 radar, one old Shilka 23-millimeter antiaircraft cannon, and six Stinger missiles. And their ears.
But why that target?
he wondered.
12:06
A.M.
, Monday, April 26,
Over the Mediterranean
Doug Holloway rode the throttles and stick with an easy touch, keeping the big bomber tucked under the KC-10 tanker with an ease that belied the difficulty of flying in close formation for an air-to-air refueling at midnight. They had launched out of Whiteman nine hours ago and he was glad to have something to do. After taking off and engaging the autopilot, he had only monitored the systems to make sure everything worked as advertised. It wasn’t much of a worry because the big bomber was remarkably reliable.
But the same could not be said for Terrant who sat in the right seat, which traditionally was reserved for copilots. As the mission commander, he was responsible for working the systems and accomplishing the mission. It was a break from the normal division of labor where the pilot sitting in the left seat ran the mission and everyone answered to him, but it was one that worked well in the B-2.
“Spirit One,” the boom operator on the KC-10 radioed, “you’ve stopped taking fuel.” The frequency-hopping radio they were using had a tinny sound. But it also guaranteed that no one was monitoring their transmissions, and the KC-10 appeared for all the world to be on a normal airlift mission. Terrant scanned the fuel system display. The arrows that indicated fuel was flowing to the tanks were off and the graphic tank displays were shaded full. He gave Holloway a thumbs-up.
“Rog, Toga,” Holloway told the tanker. “We’re topped off. Disconnect now.” The boom broke away from the B-2 and flew above his head as he retarded the throttles to clear the tanker.
Terrant’s face broke into a smile. With the tanks topped off, they could hit the target and, in an emergency, make it to their alternate recovery base at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. He checked his threat warning display. A few early-warning radars from Libya and Algeria were active but not a single one would ever detect the B-2 at that range. He made one last transmission on the satellite communications radio. There were no changes to the target, or the threat, and they were cleared to continue. “Time to stealth up,” he told Holloway.
Terrant’s fingers danced over the data entry panel, calling up the right pages on the small screen. Automatically, antennas were retracted, shields lowered, electronic defenses fully activated, and all external electronic signals that could be detected, like the radar, placed in standby. Within seconds, the B-2 was ready for combat. The B-2 never became totally unobservable to all radars, but once the aircraft was in its “mission mode,” it came extremely close to disappearing. The downside to all this was that they lost outside radio communications and the use of the aircraft’s radar.