Assassin

Chapter Fifty-Nine

The White House

“SHOOT DOWN A CIVLIAN AIRLINER WITH A FEW HUNDRED people aboard. Based on your best guess as to what the hell is actually going on here.”

“It’s not a guess, sir.”

“I’ve known you a long time, Alex.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re not on speaker. Just you and me. Haven’t got a lot of time here. You told me yourself that what you had, you would not, or could not, characterize as hard information, correct?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“You saw an aircraft explode, but it was on a monitor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could have been a tape. Could have been digitally altered in some way.”

“Could have been, yes, sir.”

“This information about an alleged second 747 carrying terrorists you received directly from bin Wazir himself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Confirmed by a secondary source.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Reliable? Who the hell is it?”

“He’s a sumo wrestler, sir.”

“Alex, listen. Unless you’ve got something, anything you’re not telling me, and I mean right this second, I’m going to authorize the FAA to let that airplane land in Los Angeles, you got me?”

“Mr. President, the man flying that plane is not who he says he is. Nor is that airplane what it appears, no doubt unquestionably in many people’s eyes, to be.”

“How do you know that?”

“My gut.”

“Your gut. Well, that’s hardly enough to go on now, is it? Shoot down a planeload of people. Alex, you know I’m sorry as hell about Tex Patterson. Goddamn it. Tex was one of my closest friends. But you did a fine job of getting Brick Kelly out of that goddamn place alive, helluva job, and I want to personally—”

“His mother, sir.”

“His mother?”

“His mother. Or, his wife or his girlfriend. Doesn’t matter, as long as they’re close. We could patch them through right to the pilot. Have them ask him a few intimate—”

“Goddamn right we could! Good thinking! Jesus Christ! Stay with me—I want you to hear the whole thing—hey, Karen, you still got British Airways on the line? Tell ’em you want personnel, now! Call the FAA and tell them to buy time. Put that plane in a traffic hold—Alex, you still there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, we’ve got BA chief of personnel on, go ahead Alex, this is your baby.”

“Hello?” Hawke said.

“This is Patrick O’Dea speaking, sir, how may we be of service?”

“Mr. O’Dea, Alex Hawke speaking, there’s a problem with one of your pilots. Simon Breckenridge. I’d like to speak immediately to his wife. Or closest relative. And I need you to ring straight through—”

“It’s the middle of the night here, sir! We—”

“The president of the United States is also on the line, Mr. O’Dea. This is a crisis situation—”

“Yeah, this is President McAtee in Washington, Mr. O’Dea. I’d appreciate it if you’d just put us through to Captain Breckenridge’s closest relative.”

“Certainly, Mr. President, I, uh, I’m just looking—ah, here we are, his wife, yes, a Mrs. Marjorie Breckenridge living in Hay-on-Wye. I’ll put you through to her straightaway, Mr. President.”

There was a faint screeching tone, during which the president said to Hawke, “We’ll take it from here, Alex. I’ll keep this line open and…however this plays out, good work and God bless, Hawkeye.”

A ring, and then a woman answered, “Hullo?”

“Mrs. Breckenridge? This is Jack McAtee, president of the United States calling.”

“Very funny,” the woman’s voice again. “If you call this number again, I shall call the police. They can trace you, you know. Good-bye and don’t ever—”

“Wait! Don’t hang up! It’s about your husband, Simon!”

Navy F/A18-E Super Hornets suddenly swarmed around the inbound 747 like angry bees. Upstairs, F-117A Stealth fighters from Miramar were standing by. Johnny Adare was on the radio now, talking to the tower, trying desperately to stay calm. Soong was filming the fighters, but he wasn’t very calm either. It was almost worth it to see the little bastard sweat.

“Squawk two-five-zero-six, climb and maintain flight level one-niner-zero,” L.A. said.

“Climb and maintain one-niner-zero, Speedbird 77 heavy…Uh, what exactly is the problem, L.A. Approach?”

“We’re trying to work that out, sir. Captain, I have an urgent call for you. I’m patching it through to you now.”

“What?” Johnny Adare said. “What are you talking—”

“Simon? Simon, what’s going on?” a woman’s voice asked him. Johnny grabbed at Soong’s shirt, pulling him closer. Then he had his hand around his throat, shaking him like ragdoll.

“They’ve got a fucking woman on the phone now fucking wants to talk to me!” Adare hissed in his ear. “You got some fucking ideas how to handle this part, you bleeding little shit?”

“Stay cool, Johnny, just talk to her—whatever she wants to hear.”

“Simon,” the woman said, “You don’t sound like yourself. Are you all right, love? They won’t tell me what this is about. They want me to—to ask you our children’s names, dear.”

“Children’s names?” Adare said, his voice rising involuntarily.

“Yes, dear. The children’s names—”

“Well, there’s little Simon. And, of course—”

“Oh, dear God! Are you quite all right, dear? Has someone got a gun? Tell me what’s wrong! I can’t stand this. I can’t—”

“Yes, I’m fine. What’s the matter? I don’t—”

“For God’s sakes, Simon, we don’t have any children anymore! That lorry came round the bend and—oh, my God! This is not my husband! You are not my husband, do you hear me, whoever you are? God damn all of you! Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Hawke heard a sharp clack over the radio as the receiver in a small town in Wales was slammed down.

“God damn it!” the president screamed at his staff. “You all hear that? Jesus Christ!”

Somebody, somewhere, then said, “Go ahead, Mr. President. The Navy link is back up. Top Hat fighter squadron can hear you loud and clear now.” The president got back on the radio.

“Top Hat Squadron leader, Top Hat Squadron leader. This is your commander-in-chief speaking. Do you copy?”

“Yes, sir, I read you loud and clear, sir. I am required to ask for your mission code, sir.”

“That’s correct. This is Warhorse, son. Whisky Alpha Romeo. I repeat, this is Warhorse, Whisky Alpha Romeo.”

“Uh, roger, Warhorse, this is Gunfighter, over. Sir.”

“I want your squadron to arm your weapons, Gunfighter.”

“Armed, sir. That’s affirmative.”

“I want you boys to escort that British Air flight to the ground. I want him to land now. L.A. Tower is halting all traffic within a radius of twenty miles and clearing all runways. Put him on the ground, son. Do it right—”

Hawke heard this exchange and immediately thumbed his mike, interrupting the president.

“Warhorse, Warhorse, break. This is Hawkeye, over.”

“Yeah, go ahead, Hawkeye.”

“Sir, I strongly reco taking this bird out in the desert. Edwards Air Force Base is the closest. Over.”

“Copy. Hell, he’s right, Gunfighter,” the president said. “You fellas copy that? Take him to Edwards. I’ll get the reception party organized, over.”

“Roger, Warhorse, we copy that. Top Hat will force a landing at Edwards. Uh, sir, we may encounter resistance—he, uh, is not responding at this time, sir. How far may we go, sir, over.”

There was a long pause, and then the president spoke, all weariness gone from his voice.

“What’s your name, Gunfighter?”

“My name is Captain Wiley Reynolds Jr., Mr. President.”

“Captain Reynolds, I authorize you to do absolutely whatever it takes to protect your country. Gunfighter. Acknowledge.”

“Whatever it takes, sir. Over.”