Primary Target (1999) (41 page)

Farkas selected another channel and heard the familiar musical interlude that accompanied the bright red "Breaking News" logo.

"This just in to CNN," the vivacious blonde reported. "We're receiving information that Air Force One has been involved in a collision and has crash-landed at Dobbins Air Force Base."

Bug-eyed, Farkas and Yahyavi stared at each other, then turned back to the television screen.

"Repeat, Air Force One has crash landed. We have unconfirmed reports that the president was aboard at the time the plane went down. CNN will bring you more details when we receive them."

Farkas switched to another station in the metropolitan area. After a brief explanation of the breaking story by the anchorwoman, a grim-faced local reporter confirmed that an airplane had crashed on the outskirts of Smyrna, Georgia. A moment later the first live television pictures began coming in from the crash site.

Farkas and Yahyavi concentrated on listening to the reporter.

Holding an open umbrella in one hand and a microphone in the other, she was clearly astounded by the devastation surrounding her. Not prepared for the extent of the disaster, the commentator was relaying information as quickly as she was receiving it. Distracted by a low-flying media helicopter, the woman continually glanced at the helo while she answered questions from the news anchor at the Atlanta studio.

A smile of immense satisfaction spread across Farkas's face. "We brought down Air Force One. We did it!"

"Praise Allahu," Yahyavi said in a trembling voice as he repeatedly poked his thumb into the air. "Death to enemies of the revolution!"

Before Farkas could respond, the police scanner suddenly broadcast a terrorist-threat alert. Transfixed, Farkas and Yahyavi listened to the warning of "potential terrorist activity" in and around the international airport. The woman repeated everything twice, then paused to receive an update.

Every available law enforcement officer was descending on the Atlanta airport and the immediate area surrounding Hartsfield International. According to the dispatcher, the FAA flight controllers believed that the bogus radio instructions had come from somewhere near the airport.

Farkas and Yahyavi stared at each other for a moment, then scrambled to gather their belongings and make a run for the rental car.

"What about the equipment?" Yahyavi asked in a frightened voice.

"Leave everything here," Farkas said curtly as he donned his captain's uniform. "Let's get moving."

Abandoning the radio equipment at the Marriott, they drove their rental car straight to the Mercury Air Center building and made a mad dash for the Citation. Both men noted the lack of activity on the aircraft parking ramp. There was no sign of people and no airplane engines running. Surprised that the crowded parking ramp was deserted, Yahyavi quickly yanked the engine covers off the Citation while Farkas brought the jet to life. With the second engine coming up to speed, Yahyavi jumped through the door and locked it while Farkas called ground control for permission to taxi to the runway.

"Negative, Citation Two-Two Tango Whiskey," the controller said bluntly. "The airport is closed at this time. Do not taxi or reposition your aircraft. I repeat, remain where you are."

Farkas was about to respond to the controller when he and Yahyavi saw two police cars slide to a halt near the fixed-base operation. Farkas's survival instincts were honed to a razor-thin edge.

With their weapons drawn, three officers jumped out of the patrol cars and cautiously approached the idling Citation. One of the men was carrying a high-powered rifle with a scope mounted on top.

"What do we do?" Yahyavi insisted with an anxious expression. "You can't let this happen to us."

"Shut up," Farkas snarled as he shoved the throttles forward and released the brakes. With animal keenness, he wheeled the jet around and raced for the taxiway parallel to runway 8L-26R. Three rounds penetrated the Citation's fuselage as Farkas lurched onto the taxiway and added full power to takeoff downwind.

Once airborne, he sucked the landing gear up and raced northward under the dark clouds. With his transponder turned off, Farkas flew low to avoid radar detection. Fifteen minutes after the frantic escape, Farkas banked sharply to miss a tall tower. Startled by the close call, he zoom-climbed to 1,500 feet and kept a close watch for other traffic. He turned to glance at his accomplice.

Ashen-faced, Yahyavi sat in the cabin and stared at the rays of light coining through the bullet holes.

Farkas grinned as he scanned the hazy sky. If the dice continued to roll in his favor, the jet would soon be hidden in its camouflaged hangar in West Virginia.

Chapter
40

Near Islamorada, Florida
.

There's a good-sized one," Jackie announced as she I pointed to a large yacht straight ahead of the Maule. "It looks like the same kind of yacht."

Scott lowered the nose and descended toward the gleaming ship. From the wake the yacht was leaving, it was making good speed.

"Only one problem," Dalton said as they rapidly closed on the ship. "They don't have a helicopter onboard, and there isn't a name on the stern."

Jackie raised the binoculars and closely studied the yacht. "It looks exactly the same, except for the blue canopy over the afterdeck."

Scott leveled off at 200 feet. "And the inflatable boat where the helicopter had been on the other ship."

"Let's do a three-sixty," Jackie suggested as she reached for the camera. "That's an exact replica of the other yacht." "Coincidence?"

"Who knows?"

Abeam the yacht, Scott initiated a climbing turn to circle the craft. Why are they steaming so fast?

"No name on the stern," Jackie said mechanically as they banked over the ship. "And no name on either side of the upper deck. What does that tell you?"

"Well, it might be on a delivery cruise to its owner." "Headed northward?" she asked as she snapped photos of the yacht.

"It could be a West Coast boat," he advised as he allowed the Maule's nose to drop toward the water. "That's why they have that ditch that runs through Panama."

Checking the number of exposures left in the camera, Jackie turned and glanced at the yacht. "Humor me and make a low, slow pass parallel to the stern."

Scott nodded and rolled into a tight, descending turn. "If Ski Cat wasn't telling the truth, we could be chasing a phantom."

Jackie gave him a questioning look. "Even if he was telling the truth, the captain could have taken it out in the Gulf." "Or," Scott suggested as the floatplane skimmed low over the water, "they could've headed toward Cuba or straight out to the Bahamas. Who knows?"

After three quick photos, Jackie leaned back in her seat. "Scott, this just doesn't feel right. Too many coincidences." "Yeah, I know what you mean." Dalton pointed the Maule toward Key Largo. "If we don't see anything between here and the Ocean Reef Club, we'll contact Hartwell."

A restlessness settled over Jackie as she scanned the horizon. "They have to be out here somewhere."

"On second thought," Scott began slowly, "what we have here is a yacht full of terrorists who, oh-by-the-way, just happen to have a nuclear bomb onboard."

"I believe you have the picture."

He turned to her and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, it's time to get the Coast Guard and Navy involved in the search." For a few seconds she gazed at him, then reached for the satellite phone. "The sooner, the better," Jackie declared as she punched in Hartwell's number.

After the Maule made the low pass and turned toward Key Largo, Massoud Ramazani slowly let out his breath and said a prayer to Allahu. Besides the wet paint running down the stern, the helicopter had barely been out of sight when the floatplane suddenly appeared. Still shaking from the close call, Ramazani turned to the inexperienced captain. "Put in at Plantation Key."

The Revolutionary Guardsman made a small course correction. "Do you want me to contact the helicopter pilot?" "No!" Ramazani blurted with pent-up anger. You fool! "He's not coming back to the ship!"

The neophyte skipper hunkered down and paid strict attention to his boat handling. He and his apprentice first mate were still smarting from scraping the hull when they hurriedly cast off from the dock.

After gathering the crew on the bridge, Ramazani laid out his plan. "As soon as we get into port, we'll paint another name on the stern, and we'll paint the deck blue. We'll make all the cosmetic changes we can to the ship this afternoon, and get under way as soon as the sun goes down."

One by one the Maule flew over dozens of yachts and fishing boats, none of which compared with the motoryacht Scott and Jackie were searching for. As they approached the Ocean Reef Club, it was obvious that the terrorists had won the first round.

Hartwell had made arrangements to have a Bell Long-Ranger delivered to them at the Fort Lauderdale--Hollywood International Airport. In addition to Jackie and Scott's efforts, the search for the yacht now included the combined assets of the military and Coast Guard.

Uncomfortable with the fine spray of aviation fuel venting over the wing, Jackie leaned back in her seat. "Let's get this thing on the ground and have a professional photographer look at our negatives."

"No argument from me," he stated emphatically. "I'm just wondering if they went out far enough to be over the horizon."

"That's a possibility."

Near Huntington, West Virgini
a
Khaliq Farkas brought the Citation I/SP to a smooth halt on the grass runway and taxied to the hangar. As the engines quietly spooled down, two men hooked the small utility tractor to the jet and quickly pushed it backward into the hangar. When Farkas and Hamed Yahyavi stepped out of the Citation, Yahyavi went straight to the rest room while Farka
s
issued the order to paint the corporate jet a different color and change the side number. Afterward he paused to inspect the A-4 Skyhawk. Sporting two Sidewinder air-to-air heat-seeking missiles, the attack jet was also loaded with a full complement of twenty-millimeter cannon shells. Farkas was checking the missiles when one of the cell members rushed into the hangar to report that Bassam Shakhar was on the satellite-phone.

When Farkas lifted the receiver, Shakhar grandly congratulated the terrorist on the downing of Air Force One, then sharply chastised Farkas for not killing the president. Shakhar reported that Macklin survived the crash landing, then went on to loudly reiterate the specific goals he had set forth.

"The entire operation," Shakhar said impatiently, "is centered around killing Macklin. Creating chaos and panic throughout the U
. S
. ranks a close second on my list of priorities, but killing Macklin is your primary responsibility. The president is your primary target," he said angrily. "Do you understand?"

Not one to take a dressing-down from anyone, Farkas did a slow burn. "My record speaks for itself," he said curtly. "Your record has a blemish," Shakhar loudly retorted. "You are supposed to be the best, but I have my doubts." Farkas gripped the phone so tightly that his hand trembled. "Our goal," Shakhar angrily blurted, "is to kill Macklin and cripple the Americans until the last U
. S
. soldier is out of the Middle East."

"Islam will prevail," Farkas said loudly and firmly. "The next event is about to start."

Chapter
41

Washington, D
. C
.

For security reasons stemming from the Atlanta tragedy, the
Secret Service had enlisted the Navy to fly Presiden
t
Macklin back to Washington in a nondescript C-2 Greyhound transport plane. In an effort to keep the security profile as low as possible, the afternoon flight was listed as a routine cross-country training mission.

Accepting the president's invitation, Colonel Curtis Bolton flew home with the commander in chief while the rest of Bolton's crew flew on an Air Force transport. Fortunately, all the passengers onboard Air Force One survived the accident. Macklin assured Bolton that he would continue to be the pilot of Air Force One. The two men discussed every aspect of the tragic accident, then talked about Bolton's impending meeting with members of the National Transportation Safety Board.

The president also talked to Bolton about rescheduling the Cornerstone Summit in Atlanta. With the focus of the nation riveted on the Dallas crash and the deadly midair collision involving Air Force One, the race initiative had been overshadowed by more pressing concerns.

Later, over a standard flight-crew box lunch, Macklin and Bolton talked about their upcoming trip to California. The president, who was scheduled to give a speech at a megabucks fund-raiser in San Francisco, was determined to fulfil
l
his obligation. To that end, Macklin had contacted General Chalmers and set the plan in motion.

Working as a close team, the Marines and the Air Force would supply fighter coverage for the flying White House on the way to the West Coast. On the way back from San Francisco, Air Force and Navy fighters would escort the 747. Every detail of the flight would be kept confidential, including the departure time.

After the twin-engine turboprop landed at Andrews Air Force Base, the chief executive had been transferred to an undistinguished military helicopter for a trip to the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. When the thorough checkup had been completed, the president had been driven in a nondescript utility van to the White House to recuperate from the harrowing experience.