Assurred Response

Chapter 17

"What do you think?" Jackie asked, looking out the car window at the low clouds and steady drizzle. "Go or no go?"

"We've been stuck here an extra day." Scott stared at their Caravan for a moment and then looked down the regional airport runway. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready to continue the search. Need to find Farkas and the nukes."

She pondered the situation for a few seconds. "This low is a big system, part of three low-pressure areas mingled together."

"I know, saw it on the Weather Channel."

"And it's not going away anytime in the near future," she added, in a slightly guarded voice.

Scott didn't respond.

"You're the chief," she conceded. "You make the call on this one."

"As long as we have reasonable visibility, we can motor along at seventy-five to eighty knots and take our sweet time."

Without hesitation, she popped the car door open. "Then let's load our gear and get on with the program."

He reached for the door handle, sensing Jackie's uneasiness. "If it gets too bad, we'll pick up a clearance and go to Salt Lake City."

"Sounds good to me."

Once their luggage, coffee, and doughnuts were aboard the airplane, Jackie turned in their rental car. Scott oversaw the refueling of the Caravan and completed a thorough walk-around while Jackie climbed into the airplane.

Scott slipped into the left seat, ran the checklist, and started the turboprop. "We barely have minimums for VFR."

Her finely drawn brow arched. "I'd say that's an honest assessment. We haven't filed a flight plan either."

"Thats because we dont know where were going to land or how many times we re going to stop," he said, before calling Ground Control for permission to taxi. Once they were airborne, Scott raised the landing gear and leveled the Caravan below the dark clouds.

With pen in hand, Jackie closely studied the sectional chart. "It looks like we could check Logan and then start our grid search, providing we have the visibility"

"Okay." He glanced at the GPS, lowered the flaps, and began slowing the Caravan. At 80 knots indicated airspeed, a computer-generated voice announced a warning. "Gear down for runway landing."

"Ah, yes indeed, you have a backup," Jackie said, noticing the flashing annunciator light on the panel. "Marine proof."

When they were a few miles west of Preston, Idaho, the sky to the south and west began to get darker, much darker. Scott turned eastbound while Jackie called the Boise Flight Service Station for a weather update.

"Logan has gone below minimums," she announced. "Pocatello is going down too. Our options are shrinking."

Scott added power and raised the flaps. "Well, this isn't going to work VFR, not in the direction we need to go." He studied the chart for a moment. "We're only a few miles from Bear Lake." He checked to make sure the landing gear was up. "We'll put down there, throw out the anchor, and have our breakfast."

Jackie was dubious about landing on a lake in this kind of weather, but she kept her feelings to herself. They flew low over the Cache National Forest and began their approach to the lake.

Scott keyed the marine radio. "Bear Lake traffic, Caravan amphibian on a right base for a landing to the west."

There was no response.

"Probably no one out on a day like this," he said, needing to hear the reassurance of his own voice.

Jackie remained quiet. Let's go to Salt Lake.

The drizzle had turned to steady rain and the visibility was rapidly deteriorating. Scott selected full flaps and began reducing power. Because he was barely able to see the surface of the lake, he began slowing his rate of descent when the radar altimeter hit 200 feet. A few seconds later the aural warning sounded, prompting him to quickly recheck the landing gear.

"Scott, I think we should climb out of here and pick up a clearance to Salt Lake — anywhere." She was straining to see through the rain-soaked windshield.

"Hang on, were almost there."

He was totally concentrating on setting up for the landing flare when the satellite phone rang. At the same instant, a pair of stunned fishermen in a small fishing boat appeared in the Caravans wide windshield. While the panicked, wide-eyed anglers dove to the floor of their boat, Scott simultaneously pulled on the yoke and shoved the thrust lever forward. Violently rocking the small craft with prop wash, the amphibian skimmed over the top of the boat and began climbing.

Scott milked the flaps up. "I think that's a great idea."

"What?"

"A clearance to somewhere — anywhere."

"No kidding," Jackie said, as she answered the satellite phone. She asked Frank Wakefield to hold for a moment.

Scott banked into a spiraling ascent. "We'll take direct to Salt Lake."

She nodded and checked in with the controller. With an instrument clearance in hand, and the plane climbing to altitude under radar contact, Jackie spoke with Wakefield and wrote a few notes on the aeronautical chart. She signed off and placed the satellite phone down.

Scott's adrenaline was returning to normal. "What's up?"

"Well, things are beginning to get hot. There's been a flurry of activity here in the Northwest."

"What kind of activity?"

"The National Security Agency has been intercepting phone calls and messages from Europe and the Middle East to a number of individuals in the northwestern states."

"Anything on Farkas?"

"He didn't mention anything. The intercepts indicate that the cells are being activated. They are beginning to assemble in groups. Wakefield's people are investigating a number of reports. He wants us to check out a situation that popped up early this morning."

"Where?"

"Just a second." She paused to answer a radio call from Salt Lake Center and then turned to Scott. "The FBI received a tip from some guy who overheard a drunk in a bar late last night, actually at one o'clock this morning."

Scott shook his head. "A tip from a guy in a bar after midnight?"

"That's right. The guy was apparently bragging about getting a thousand dollars in cash for renting a houseboat, in his name, for two men."

"The significance?"

"According to the informant, who has been thoroughly checked out, the drunk claimed the men were Middle Easterners."

"Where, what lake?"

"Lake Mead."

"Has there been anything strange, anything out of the ordinary, going on in the Lake Mead area?"

"There have been reports of Middle Eastern types around the lake. The men, assumed to be the two who paid the guy to rent the houseboat, have been seen before at different areas on the lake."

Scott carefully adjusted the power and trimmed the airplane. "Wakefield wants us to see if we can locate them?"

"He doesn't want us to spook them." Jackie's expression reflected her concern. "Wakefield says they want us to isolate them."

"Do we know their last location?" Scott glanced at the ominous clouds.

"They're somewhere in the southwest section of the lake. Wakefield's people don't want to move in until they've gleaned all the information they can get."

"Do you have a description?"

"There's a number, thirty-one, painted in bold black on the roof. The boat is one of the largest houseboats on the lake, so we don't have to dink with the small fries."

"Okay, we're on our way." He looked at the en-route chart. "Let's stay over in Salt Lake. We'll buy some fishing equipment, check the weather in the Boulder area, and get an early start in the morning."

"So, what's our plan?"

"Sit on the floats and fish, look natural and relaxed like we know what we're doing. We'll observe the houseboaters and stay in touch with Wakefield."

She folded the VFR chart. "Well-heeled anglers without a care in the world."

"Right. Need a couple of those Australian bush hats and some khaki vests adorned with fishing lures."

"Do you even know how to fish?" she asked skeptically Scott chuckled. "You underestimate me."

Outside the maintenance hangar, Khaliq Farkas and eight other men in the terrorist cell were putting the finishing touches on the last of the handmade camouflage nettings. Viewed from the air, the specially crafted nylon material blended almost perfectly with the surrounding terrain and completely hid two World War II B-25 Mitchell bombers.

Farkass bombers, one purchased in Colombia and the other in Ecuador, were mechanically sound. They had recently been restored to good flying condition, not excellent, but sound enough to carry out the mission Saeed Shayhidi planned.

One of the Mitchells was painted in brown and dark gray colors while the other one was dull silver. Powered by 1,700-horsepower engines, the sturdy warbirds had a maximum speed of 275 mph. They could carry 3,000 pounds of bombs 1,350 statute miles.

Farkas had just received another coded e-mail from Shayhidi. The hot-tempered and impetuous financier was pressuring him to expedite the operation, but the precious weapons were still being attached inside their containers.

Located in southeastern Switzerland in the Oberengadin, or Upper Inn Valley, surrounded by breathtaking Alpine peaks and deep valleys, Saint Moritz — Sankt Moritz in German — is one of the worlds most famous winter-sport centers. Known for its classical elegance and extensive variety of facilities, it was the majestic scene of the Winter Olympic Games in 1928 and 1948.

After visiting this magnificent village for the first time, Saeed Shayhidi had decided to build one of his vacation homes there.

Perched high on a steep hillside, the 7,8oo-square-foot chalet had wide eaves imported from Italy. Everything about it was custom made. The rooms, hallways, bathrooms, stairs, windows, spa, and doors were all oversized. It had taken an international team of twenty-seven architects, construction specialists, and interior designers the better part of a year to build and decorate the grandiose chalet.

Shayhidi and his entourage arrived shortly after 11 P. M. He promptly ordered the butler and the maid to extinguish all lights and remain inside. The two bodyguards and the butler were posted to stand watch until daybreak. Exhausted and depressed, Shayhidi retired to the master bedroom on the second floor and promptly fell asleep.

The two CIA operatives watching the chalet reported Shayhidi's arrival to the Agency, noting that the home was completely blacked out. They estimated five or six people were in the residence. One of the agents, posing as a writer for an architectural digest, had duped Shayhidi's butler into giving him a tour of the home the previous day. The agent's copious notes and detailed sketches of the imposing chalet were helpful to the special operations forces.

Less than seventy minutes after the analysts at Langley were informed about Shayhidi's arrival, the elite soldiers of Delta Force were boarding their four MH-47D Chinook helicopters at Ramstein Air Base, Germany. Two highly classified missions had been thoroughly planned and practiced. Now it was time to put the arduous training to good use. The powerful twin-rotor helicopters lifted off in the dead of night. Two headed in one direction while the other pair flew toward a second secret destination. Each mission was assigned a primary Chinook and a backup.

Other special operations forces and SOAR flight crews were launching to conduct other clandestine missions. By order of the commander in chief, the Chinooks were being escorted by helicopter gunships.

Saeed Shayhidi was rudely awakened from a deep sleep by deafening explosions and horrific submachine gunfire. Panicked, he knew who the intruders were. How did they know I was here? Have to get away or they'll kill me.

This home, like all of Shayhidis residences, had a built-in escape route. He opened the faux laundry chute and climbed in feet first, closed the outside cover, and dropped into a small room next to a tunnel. He grabbed the prepared stash of clothes, shoes, and money and quickly slipped the shoes on his bare feet.

He could hear more explosions and the staccato sound of submachine gunfire intertwined with yelling and pounding. It sounded like the chalet was being destroyed from within. He heard glass breaking, followed by a huge thud.

Entering the narrow, dimly lighted tunnel, Shayhidi rapidly covered the thirty-five yards to an opening under a small storage shed near the back of his property line.

After crawling out of the tunnel and replacing the wooden hatch, Shayhidi watched through a small window as his home was being demolished. He yanked his clothes on in the darkened shed and returned to the window. Catching his breath, he watched in shock as the soldiers of Delta Force withdrew from his badly damaged chalet.

When the darkened Chinook helicopter levitated into the black sky, Shayhidi saw lights coming on inside his home. He could see smoke pouring from the oversized windows. Most of the glass panels had been blown out. The interior of his marvelous chalet had been virtually destroyed, including the custom-made furniture, the ornate bric-a-brac, and his expensive paintings.

Soon after the departure of the Delta Force soldiers, fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, and assorted media vehicles began converging on the badly damaged residence. His neighbors joined other stunned bystanders as firemen quickly extinguished a small blaze in the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Shayhidi watched while rescue workers and medical attendants carried out the bullet-riddled bodies of the two men sworn to protect him. Unhurt, but still shaking with fear, the buder and maid were led to a police van and driven away.

Shayhidi decided to wait until things calmed down before leaving his hiding place. A half hour after the firemen and police officials left his home he slipped quietly out of the shed and walked several blocks to the Suvretta House. He checked into the mansionlike hotel under a different name and made arrangements to travel incognito to a safe haven. His identity would be closely guarded in his permanently leased suite in France at the La Reserve de Beaulieu.

Pauline Garretson sat in the dark hushed room in the Seattle Air Route Traffic Control Center and concentrated on her radarscope. The screen was growing more congested as the afternoon push was getting under way. Like many other air traffic controllers, she was still on edge after the devastating aerial attacks of recent days. In the recesses of her subconscious, the King Air tragedy in Delaware was Paulines worst nightmare come true.

Garretson, aware she was responsible for hundreds of lives, felt she was working much harder than usual. The notice to airmen (NOTAM) prohibiting flight operations around all nuclear power plants and refineries added another layer of stress to the already demanding job. She was trying to balance her patience with her desire to keep pilots on course and away from potential hazards.

Working a Convair 580 cargo flight originating in Kalispell, Montana, bound for Bowerman Airport adjacent to Hoquiam, Washington, Garretson was surprised by a female voice with a Middle Eastern accent, but quickly discounted her concern. In growing numbers, women were continuing to join the ranks of commercial pilots, aviation technicians, air traffic controllers, and flight attendants, and a small percentage of the newcomers had not mastered the English language. Garretson cleared the Convair to descend and handed the aircraft off to the Terminal Radar Approach Control, or TRACON, in Seattle.

Jared Matus, comfortably ensconced in his chair on the fourth floor of the main terminal building at the Seattle-Tacoma international airport, gave the Convair 580 a vector to avoid other aircraft. "Direct Express Three-Twelve, fly heading two-one-zero for traffic."

"Two-hun-zeeraw, Diweck Express Thee-Hun-Two."

Hearing the voice, Matus had an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. It slowly faded when the pilot complied. After the Convair was clear of conflicting traffic, Matus cleared the flight direct to Bowerman Airport. Shortly thereafter, the pilot canceled her instrument flight plan. She was instructed to squawk 1200, the code for visual flight rules. With other traffic to manage, Matus did not follow the flight of the Convair.

Hameeda Nashashibi, a Saudi-born dissident and fervent follower of Saeed Shayhidi, guided the 56,000-pound cargo version of the twin turboprop toward Runway 24 at Bowerman, an airport with no control tower. The veteran airliner-cum-cargo-tramp was loaded with jet fuel, high explosives, steel beams, and nineteen drums of fuel oil. Having accumulated a total of 29,968 flying hours, the rugged Convair was making its farewell flight. Nashashibi lowered the flaps and landing gear and then said a prayer for guidance and focus.

Nashashibi had been the second woman to attend the Salman Pak terrorist training camp near Baghdad. Along with eight male members of Saeed Shayhidi's terrorist network, she had trained to be a pilot at the secluded Sabzehar School of Aviation in Syria. After her initial training, Khaliq Farkas personally made arrangements for Nashashibi to receive intensive Convair 580 training in South Africa. Now the young woman who despised America was at the controls of a powerful weapon.

Near the approach end of Runway 24, she added power, turned off the transponder, and raised the landing gear and flaps. Remaining low and gaining speed, the 580 flew over the uncontrolled airport and made a gentle right turn to fly north along the scenic Washington coastline. She worked diligently to set maximum power so she could concentrate on flying the tired cargo airplane.

The Convair 580 thundered over Copalis Beach, Pacific Beach, and Cape Elizabeth and then continued to hug the coast to Elephant Rock. Nashashibi made another easy right turn to skirt up the west side of the Olympic Mountains. She cleared the top of Mount Olympus by thirty feet, banked to the right again, and eased the nose down. With the big Allison turboprops screaming at full power, Nashashibi fixated on her target and continued to trim the airplane as it rapidly accelerated.

Located on the east bank of the Hood Canal thirteen miles north of Bremerton, Washington, Bangor Naval Submarine Base is the home port for a squadron of Trident submarines. The base is 155 nautical miles from the Pacific Ocean, which requires a slow and potentially hazardous trip through the Strait of Juan de Fuca to reach open water. The 560-foot Ohio-class boomers are an extremely important part of the nations nuclear deterrent triad — land, sea, and air.

Petty Officer Second Class Carlos Navarro was kneeling on the broad hull of the USS Nevada SSBN 733 repairing a connection that provided shore-to-submarine electrical power. In the picturesque background west of the strategic base, the Olympic Mountains rose high above the calm water and lush trees.

On the aft section of the mighty hull, close to the waterline, a bevy of sea lions nonchalantly sunned themselves on the deck. Over the many years, the playful sea lions and their plentiful offspring had learned that the U. S. Navy was a kind and benevolent innkeeper. A good share of the large-eared seals even had their favorite submarine and reluctantly migrated to other boomers when their boat went to sea.

Carlos Navarro did not so much hear the deep-throated sound as sense something strange. He looked around, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary; no obvious threat loomed. When some of the lounging sea lions began skittering into the water, Navarro stopped and concentrated again, this time on the sound.

He glanced behind him at the Olympic Mountains and froze. Practically scraping the trees on the gently sloping hills, a Convair 580 was roaring at full power and descending at an unbelievable speed. Navarro could see the airplane was headed straight for the USS Nevada. Astonished, he stared at the Convair for a moment before his mind reacted.

Navarro jumped into the cold water on the side of the hull away from the oncoming airplane and began thrashing through the water in an attempt to evade the aircraft. The remaining sea lions made a hasty departure and dove beneath the surface.

To the startled bystanders on the pier, the Convair looked like it was going to plunge into the water 200 yards away. When the planes nose abruptly snapped up to a level position, the paralyzed sailors turned and ran for their lives. The 580 s huge propellers were kicking up spray as it bulls-eyed Nevada's sail, known on prenuclear submarines as the conning tower, and exploded in dramatic fashion.

Flaming wreckage and thousands of parts showered USS Alaska SSBN 732 and its many crew members. The damage was catastrophic. The USS Nevada was destroyed, sinking in only eight minutes. Carlos Navarro and eleven other sailors died in the initial explosion.