Assurred Response

Chapter 16

The nuclear-powered British attack submarine submerged into the depths of the Gulf of Mexico after launching a U. S.-built Tomahawk cruise missile on a test flight. Closely followed by U. S. Air Force chase planes, the unarmed missile made a perfect flight across a section of the Florida Panhandle. Arriving precisely over its target coordinates, the upgraded weapon made an uneventful parachute landing on the spacious grounds of Eglin AFB.

The Royal Navy submarine crew was working closely with the U. S. Navy on a joint U. S./U. K. version of the Advanced Tomahawk Weapon Control System software. The ongoing classified tests in the Gulf of Mexico were designed to promote commonality and interoperability between the two navies. Today was the last day of testing for Trafalgar, and all hands were extremely pleased with the final results. In the near future, the submarines sister, HMS Torbay, was scheduled to continue the testing.

Late in the morning, with the eighty-seven-foot coast guard cutter USCG Bomto providing security, Trafalgar neared the surface of the tranquil gulf to receive routine satellite communications. The first message, routed through several high commands, including the U. S. E-4B National Airborne Operations Center and No. 10 Downing Street, was a shocker for the submarine s skipper.

Clearly taken by surprise when he read the communique, Commander Douglas Thornton-Williams, the captain of Trafalgar; was puzzled and requested a verification of his highly unusual orders. He promptly received confirmation directly from the British prime minister. Still, Thornton-Williams and his second in command were uncomfortable.

The cargo carrier Savanna Lorenzo, one of Saeed Shayhidis newest vessels, was departing the deepwater port of Pascagoula, Mississippi, at 2:43 P. M. Central Time. The specialized ship had taken on a wide variety of perishable items from the cold storage warehousing. Bound for the port of Boston, the spotless cargo ship was only ten miles from the blue waters of the gulf shipping lanes.

The highly experienced master of Savanna Lorenzo, along with everyone else in the maritime shipping business, had heard what was happening to the dwindling fleet owned by suspected terrorist Saeed Shayhidi. Speculation was running wild, and many of Shayhidi's ships were hurriedly making their way to the nearest port.

Reports from their corporate headquarters confirmed that three of Shayhidi's masters and their crews had abandoned their cargo ships, one at Grays Harbor, Washington, another in Singapore, and the third in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Their employer was offering huge salary bonuses to captains and crew members who stayed with their ships.

The captain of the Savanna Lorenzo, Enrico Antonellia, a crusty Italian with thirty-eight years of command-at-sea experience, was not the least bit worried about the cruise. The old sea dog calmly assured his faithful crew that nothing could happen to them in the benign Gulf of Mexico.

As a final assurance to any doubters, the master explained that he was going to remain in close proximity to the East Coast of the United States. No one in a submarine, American or otherwise, would dare risk coming that close to land.

Unfortunately, the skipper was wrong, but not dead wrong. While the crew of the cargo ship Savanna Lorenzo was being rescued by a U. S. Navy frigate, the fragmented vessel and most of its cargo was settling to the bottom of the gulf. A few tons of the floating perishable goods were providing a feeding frenzy for thousands of fish.

Twenty minutes after the picturesque sunset faded from the Gulf of Mexico, the officers and crew of HMS Trafalgar were beginning their long voyage home to the United Kingdom. All hands agreed they would certainly have one hell of a sea story to tell their grandchildren.

Sam Bertorini, founder and CEO of Bertorini Development Corporation, was flying his company Raytheon Beech C-90B King Air from State College, Pennsylvania, to Millville, New Jersey. He had stopped to pick up a close friend, Pennsylvania State University business professor Arnold Pezzella. Whenever Bertorini s company was considering a new construction project, in this case an upscale apartment complex, Pezzella acted as a trusted consultant and sounding board.

Flying VFR at 15,500 feet on a star-studded night, Bertorini requested flight following from the New York Air Route Traffic Control Center. Although the controller was busy with IFR traffic, he accommodated Bertorinis request.

A self-made multimillionaire, Sam Bertorini was accustomed to bending the rules and getting away with it. A multiengine-rated private pilot with no instrument rating, Bertorini flew with a professional pilot whenever the weather was questionable. If the forecast looked reasonably good, he took pride in flying his twin-engine turboprop himself.

His aircraft insurance clearly stated that a professional, instrument-rated C-90 simulator-trained pilot had to be on board every time King Air N44SB left the ground, but as his former flight instructors could attest, minor details like rules and regulations never slowed Sam the Man Bertorini.

Pezzella, who had been in the passenger cabin studying a pro forma balance sheet, joined Bertorini in the cockpit.

"Sam, I want to go over these numbers with you, make a few suggestions I think will help."

"Sure. Think we re going in too light?"

"Want to wait and discuss this over dinner?" Pezzella asked, buckling his restraining harnesses.

Bertorini glanced at him in the soft light of the cockpit. "No, always open to fresh ideas."

"Well, it s not the retroactive effect of the financing that concerns me." Pezzella opened his spiral binder. "It's the unknown quantity of renters available at these prices."

"What do you mean?" Bertorini turned down the volume on the aircraft radio and pushed back the headset over his right ear. "There are masses of renters in that area."

Pezzella studied the numbers. "You're on the borderline between renters who can afford this kind of apartment complex and people who can afford to get into a new home, a starter home."

"You think we're overpriced for the amenities?"

"I won't really know until I check the demographics and some other data. Being that close to Delaware Bay could be a problem."

The men continued their conversation while the King Air approached the dividing line between New York Center airspace and Washington Center's area of responsibility.

Sitting at his radarscope in the faintly lighted room at New York Center, Dwight Moffitt was getting more nervous by the minute. "King Air Four-Four Sierra Bravo, New York Center."

A new father of less than three hours, Moffitt was trying to concentrate on the task at hand. He waited a few seconds and spoke slowly and deliberately. "King Air November Four-Four Sierra Bravo, New York Center, do you read?"

Moffitt swore to himself. He tried again and then waited a few seconds. "King Air Four-Four Sierra Bravo, do you copy?"

Silence.

Becoming more concerned, Moffitt called one more time. "Four-Four Sierra Bravo: If you read Center, ident."

There was no return from the King Air's transponder.

"King Air Four-Four Sierra Bravo," Moffitt said, in a tight voice. "You are about to enter restricted — prohibited — airspace! Turn left to zero-two-zero now — left zero-two-zero!"

No reply.

God, don't let this happen to me, not tonight! Moffitt contacted Washington Center on the landline and quickly explained the situation. The Washington controller frantically tried to establish contact with the King Air. Time was running out and there was nothing he could do. The distraught controller continued to call the wayward aircraft until a supervisor relieved him.

"Thumper Zero-Eight;' the controller radioed to a marine corps AH-1W Super Cobra attack helicopter, "we have a situation. Traffic at your nine o'clock, passing left to right, about to penetrate prohibited airspace! No radio, no comm!"

"Thumper has the target," Captain Humberto Chavez said, as he armed his weapons. "How far, how soon, will he break the cone?"

"Approximately twenty seconds."

"Confirm traffic at my ten o'clock is the target?"

"That's correct — that's the target. Now at your eleven o'clock!"

"Zero-Eight."

Immersed in his conversation with Pezzella, Sam Bertorini suddenly realized he needed to begin his descent. He programmed the autopilot to commence descending at 500 feet a minute. Feeling pressured to get down as expeditiously as possible, Bertorini looked at the enroute Low Altitude Chart his professional pilot used for instrument flying.

He changed radio frequencies and tried to call Washington Center. They could hear him, but he couldn't hear the controller. Bertorini finally realized the volume on his radio was turned down, but it was too late.

Captain Chavez had no other choice. Orders were orders and they were unambiguous. He rolled in behind the civilian King Air. God, I hope this isn't a mistake! After the Sidewinder locked onto the target, Chavez steeled himself and took the shot. The air-to-air missile streaked straight for the turboprop.

Sam Bertorini reached for the control knob at the same instant the King Air penetrated the fifteen-statute-mile Prohibited Area around the Salem Units 1 and 2 nuclear power plants near Salem, New Jersey.

"Washington Center," Bertorini radioed, "King Air Four—"

The Sidewinder slammed into the left engine and exploded. The left wing promptly separated between the engine and the fuselage. Pinned into their seats by heavy G forces, Bertorini and Pezzella knew they were going to die in the next few seconds. They also knew there was absolutely nothing they could do to prevent it.

Chavez and his copilot in the front seat of the Super Cobra gunship watched the blazing King Air roll over to the left and spin downward out of control. The C-90B plunged nose first into the ground near Interstate 95 and the New Castle County Airport, Wilmington, Delaware.

The tragic event was monitored on VHF radios by a number of individuals, including other pilots and a television news crew. The horrifying story, complete with accompanying video of the crash scene, was soon breaking news on all cable news networks. The message was clear. General aviation pilots needed to be extremely cautious about flight planning and orientation. Even a small error in navigation or a momentary lapse in communications could be fatal.

Located in the wide-open spaces of west Texas, the colorful city of Abilene conjures an image of weather-beaten cowhands, dusty catde drives, rowdy saloons, and gunfights at high noon. The ancestors of Abilenes current residents would be shocked to see their west Texas town now. It was home to the supersonic Rockwell B-1B strategic bomber. After showcasing its capability in Operation Iraqi Freedom, the sharklike Mach 1.5 bomber continued to be a linchpin in the war on terrorism.

The early morning arrival of the E-4B was not a surprise to the flight line workers at the air base. One of the other airborne command centers had landed at 4:20 A. M. and was standing at the ready when the presidents plane arrived. Routine by now, the debarkation and embarkation evolution went smoothly. The 747 would remain on the ramp while the president held a short meeting.

When Macklin and his senior aides entered the waiting E-4B, they found Brad Austin aboard.

A former F-4 "Phantom Phlyer" fighter pilot in Vietnam, Bradley Carlyle Austin was a trim 166 pounds and stood five feet ten. The streaks of silver-gray hair at his temples accented his twinkling hazel eyes. A distinguished graduate of the U. S. Naval Academy, Austin had opted for a commission as a second lieutenant in the U. S. Marine Corps.

Upon completion of flight training at Kingsville, Texas, he was assigned to a marine F-4 squadron. He later became an exchange pilot with a carrier-based navy F-4 fighter squadron. His performance-some would say exploits — during the Vietnam era were legendary throughout the naval aviation community.

To a person, his fellow naval aviators knew that Captain Austin had flown a captured Mig-17 behind enemy lines. Less well known was the fact that he almost faced a court-martial during his first carrier tour for breaking the restrictive rules of engagement.

After his active duty obligation, Austin remained in the marine corps reserve. He later earned his graduate degree in international studies at Georgetown University.

Cord Macklin and Colonel Brad Austin, USMCR (Retired), had met on several occasions during their years inside the Beltway. The president was aware that Brett Shannon thought highly of Austin. Shannon had relied on Austins judgment and experience, especially in situations requiring a military or global perspective.

"Brad, welcome aboard," President Macklin said, as he enthusiastically extended his hand.

"It's an honor to be here, sir."

Macklin gestured for everyone to take a seat at the conference table. He sat down and turned to Austin. "I trust you've been thoroughly briefed on our current situation."

"Yes, sir." Austin glanced at Prost and the secretary of defense. "Mr. Prost and Secretary Adair had their staffs bring me up to speed."

"Then you know we have an international diplomatic powder keg on our hands that could blow wide open at any moment."

Secretary Austin nodded solemnly. "Yes, sir. Brought my flak jacket and helmet with me."

The president smiled. "Im not so concerned about our close allies; 111 deal with them. But when word gets out that our submarines have been sinking Shayhidis ships, that we've been destroying his private property, there's going to be some heat generated."

"I understand," Brad said. "Our greatest exposure is with our pseudo-allies in Europe, the Far East, Russia, and the Middle East.

Shayhidi is an icon to many people in the Middle East, and it's going to require some hand-holding sessions."

"The bottom line?" Macklin said, looking Austin squarely in the eye. "People are going to cry foul to the U. N. and to the international press. Count on it."

"Sir, they already are."

The president slipped out of his windbreaker. "Well, I hope you'll be able to minimize the impact and smooth their ruffled feathers."

"I'm going to need some bargaining chips."

"Whatever you need, it's your show." Macklin was impressed with Austin's straightforward no-nonsense approach.

Brad didn't hesitate. "Leverage — foreign aid. I've talked with Commerce about expediting lucrative construction projects in the region, military aid packages, et cetera." Austin glanced at Prost. "It would be helpful if I had a noose to hang over Shayhidi's head."

Macklin turned to Prost. "Hartwell, anything we can release without compromising sources or methods?"

"Everything we've gathered on Shayhidi at this point is highly classified. If we find him, have him in our custody, that would dramatically change the picture."

"Or if we get our hands on Farkas," Adair added.

"That's another story," the president said.

"Farkas is still around?" Austin asked.

"He sure is, and we're trying to close the deal," Macklin said, darting a look at his watch. "Gentlemen, if there's nothing else, I suggest we let Secretary Austin get under way."

Brad rose from his chair on cue. "I'm going to be on the move a lot, but I'll keep you fully informed."

"Just don't start any wars," the president said, tongue in cheek.

Austin smiled, knowing the president was fully aware of his escapades during the unpleasantness in Vietnam.

"Thanks, Brad," Macklin added, as he shook Austin's hand firmly. "Again, welcome aboard. Sorry we have to throw you into the lion's den your first day on the job."

"I wouldn't know how to respond if it were any other way."

"Good luck," Prost said, shaking Austin's hand.

"Thank you, sir."

As soon as Austin left the 747, it began taxiing to the active runway. Escorted by four air force F-15s, President Macklin and his staff were soon airborne and on course to a patch of sterile sky above Lake Michigan near Green Bay Wisconsin.

The Amtrak California Zephyr, train number 5, was precisely on time as it passed near Rocky Mountain National Park. Originating in Chicago, many experienced travelers considered the California Zephyr the most comfortable and safest way to travel to San Francisco. The relaxing train trip was certainly one of the best ways to see the towering peaks of the Rockies, follow the winding Colorado River, and ascend the famous mile-high Donner Pass in the heart of the Sierra Nevada.

The passengers aboard the California Zephyr were beginning to see the effects of the bad weather plaguing the northwestern states. By the time the train began its leg to Glenwood Springs, Colorado, many of the contented diners were having dessert and coffee. Most conversations quietly shifted from terrorism to the myriad pleasures of San Francisco, the romantic city by the bay.

From his vantage point high on a ridge above the train, Waleed Majed waited until the second passenger car passed over the marker he had placed beside the tracks. Gleefully, he triggered the twin sets of dynamite explosives. In what appeared to be a movie in slow motion, the California Zephyr derailed in jumbled sections, its cars, piled into each other, ripping open like bags of potato chips and spilling their contents.

Laughing aloud, Majed turned and raced to the idling helicopter perched on a narrow slope behind him. He and his accomplice would be many miles away before the first news helicopters, emergency medical technicians, and law enforcement officers arrived at the scene of devastation.