Assurred Response

Chapter 19

Feeling more confident and secure, having arrived at La Reserve de Beaulieu, Saeed Shayhidi was having breakfast in his splendid Florentine suite when the phone rang. Hotel manager Jacques Debroux, Shayhidis only close friend from their days at Princeton, was in a full-blown panic. His chief of security had just reported that several men were canvassing the hotel and its grounds. The frightened manager assumed the clean-cut men had to be members of the famous U. S. CIA.

Shayhidi froze for a moment before responding. "We have to put our plan in motion," he said excitedly. "I have to get out of here!"

"I'll be there shortly," Debroux said, in a hushed voice.

"Is everything in place?" Shayhidi asked.

"Yes." Debroux glanced around the lobby. "There are two agents here already — inside," he urgently whispered.

"I'm counting on you," Shayhidi growled. "Don't lose your nerve, don't let me down."

Debroux cupped the phone while he kept his eyes on the suspected agents. "I won't. I promise."

Shayhidi hung up and quickly dressed in black slacks and a white polo shirt. How are they doing this? How are they finding me? He grabbed his wallet, jewelry, and attache case and then ventured a peek out the window overlooking the tranquil Mediterranean Sea. Three unsmiling men in business suits were standing by the pool. They must surely he guarding against an escape attempt along the coast. I have to do something… unpredictable. I have to disappear — now!

Less than three minutes later, the hotel bell captain arrived with a large trunk on his luggage cart. Debroux quickly followed him into the suite. Shayhidi scrambled into the trunk and his friend closed and latched it. The two men strained to lift the container onto the luggage cart. Debroux placed a suitcase on the cart while the bell captain hung most of Shayhidis wardrobe on the overhead rack.

Accompanied by the nervous manager, who acted the part of a guest checking out of the hotel, the bell captain wheeled the cart through the lobby to a waiting limousine. Debroux went through the motions of clearing his account while the bell captain and his assistant loaded the heavy container into the trunk of the limousine.

The two CIA agents sitting in the elegant lobby watched as Shayhidi's friend picked up his faux copy of the hotel charges, walked to the limousine, and calmly and deliberately stepped into the back of the car. The chauffeur shut the door and slid behind the steering wheel as three more agents entered the hotel lobby.

After the limousine drove away from the entrance, Debroux's nerves failed him and he almost became physically ill. Ten minutes later, the driver pulled into a secluded section of a village and stopped the car. Debroux jumped out and freed Shayhidi from the steamer trunk.

When the limousine again entered the road, Shayhidi picked up the car phone and called a Paris-based jet charter company. He used his corporate account to secure a jet but gave a different name for the passenger list. While Debroux fretted and drummed his fingers, Shayhidi made other business and travel arrangements as they continued the long drive to the Aeroport de Lyon Bron, France.

When the limousine arrived at the Transair FBO, a Falcon 900EX corporate jet was waiting on the ramp. While Shayhidi's luggage was being loaded into the Falcon, he brushed past the pilots and boarded the plane. He gave the attractive young flight attendant a sardonic smile and took a seat in the back of the luxurious jet.

He did not bother to pay for the leased limousine or to thank his friend from Princeton. For Shayhidi, life was all about himself. Nothing and no one else mattered, especially the expendable people who stood in obedient readiness, awaiting his command or wish.

Promptly at 6:30 A. M., Jackie and Scott took a taxi to the airport. They loaded their things in the Caravan and took off for nearby Lake Mead. The day was clear and the morning sun rising high above the mountains provided a breathtaking view.

The Lake Mead National Recreation Area, twice the size of Rhode Island, is where three of Americas four desert ecosystems meet. The Great Basin, the Sonoran, and the Mojave come together where one of the Wests most powerful rivers, the mighty Colorado, was stopped by one of the largest dams ever built.

Completed in 1936, Hoover Dam is a national historic landmark that can hold back 9.2 trillion gallons of water. The 727-foot dam is a concrete arch-gravity type, in which the water load is carried by both horizontal arch action and gravity. Located an hour's drive southeast of the Las Vegas strip, the dam straddles the Arizona-Nevada border.

Its mission is to control floods, improve navigation on the Colorado River, store and deliver water for reclamation of public lands, and provide hydroelectric power. Hoover Dam also contains 28.5-million-acre-foot Lake Mead, the largest man-made lake in the United States.

Since September 11, 2001, security at Hoover Dam had consisted of roadblocks and vehicle searches of all automobiles, boats, motor homes, and trucks. Except for open-bedded trucks, big rigs and buses were banned from the dam's narrow Highway 93. They were detoured to a bridge near Bullhead City, Arizona.

The heightened alert status also brought a change to Hoover's previously modest police force. Park rangers and personnel from other federal agencies were brought in to augment the force. Metal detectors were installed at the visitor center, camouflaged machine-gun posts dotted the hilltops, marksmen were stationed in concealed areas, and individuals with shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles guarded the supplier of water and electricity for the vast Southwest.

Flying at 1,200 feet above Lake Mead, Scott slowly eased the power back for a relaxed cruise speed to save fuel. "Can you believe the constantly changing blues of the water?"

"I've never seen anything like it."

Scott stared off into the distance. "This is a spectacular setting, rugged mountains in the background and sheer cliffs jutting out of the water."

"What a beautiful place." Jackie shaded her eyes. "Since the glare is so bad at this time of the morning, maybe we should fly up to the neck of the lake, make a one-eighty, and have the sun at our backs."

"That would make it easier."

They flew straight to the Temple Bar Marina in Arizona, made a descending turn, lowered the flaps, and cruised at 90 knots 600 feet above the pristine lake.

Jackie glanced at Scott. "Its nice to be this close to the water and not have to worry about losing the only engine you have."

"I know what you mean."

She raised the binoculars and scanned a wide array of boats. "Lots of people out here today"

"Its Saturday."

"And the weathers perfect," she added. "No wind and no waves."

They checked dozens of large houseboats, some in secluded coves, others in open waters. Many of the boaters waved, including a few who radioed the Caravan in the blind. Jackie chatted with a couple of the friendly people. One elderly gentleman even offered a refreshing Bloody Mary if they wanted to land. Soon, the Water Bird moniker became familiar to the boating crowd.

At half past noon, they circled Callville Bay Marina. Boasting over 600 slips, Callville Bay is one of the largest inland marinas in the United States. Scores of houseboats were carefully lined up in neat rows, beckoning their owners or renters to step aboard.

"See anything?" Scott asked.

"No, not a sign of number thirty-one."

"Want to go around again?"

"Sure, one more wide turn will do it."

They circled again and headed toward the western end of the huge lake. Another thirty minutes, now over the southern area of the lake, and Jackie figured it was time for a stretch, physiological relief, fuel, and food.

She placed the binoculars in the carrying case and removed her sunglasses. "How about a break for a juicy cowburger, some nutritional onion rings, and a big thick malted milk?"

Scott loudly groaned in disbelief. "How do you manage to stay so trim and thin?"

"Excellent genes. Step on it."

He smiled to himself and then added power and raised the flaps. "Cellulite City, here we come."

They were turning toward the airport when Jackie spotted a large houseboat about four miles northwest of Hoover Dam. There weren't any other houseboats in the vicinity and the craft was cruising toward the basin leading to the dam.

Jackie reached for the binoculars. "Keep the turn coming another twenty degrees or so — okay, hold what you have." She studied the top of the houseboat and saw the number 31 in bold black paint. "That's it! That's the one we've been looking for!"

"Are you positive?"

"Absolutely! The number and the deck color match the description Wakefield gave me."

"Okay, we'll hold our heading until we're a few miles away, and then go straight to Boulder City."

"Can you believe it? We actually found them!"

"Well," Scott said with a grin, "they won't be hard to find again."

"That's for sure. Let's make this fuel stop a quick turn. Forget the burger."

"You bet. Save the cholesterol overdose for later."

"We better contact Wakefield," Jackie suggested. "Let him know we found the houseboat and see if there's anything new we need to know."

"Give him a call."

Frank Wakefield was extremely pleased. He requested that Jackie and Scott keep number 31 under surveillance until he could mount a raid at dawn. Over Wakefield's protests, Jackie explained that a houseboat stakeout was not the focus of their mission. She would have to check with her superiors and get back to him as soon as she could.

Jackie attempted to call Hartwell Prost but could not make contact. She gave up as they turned on final approach to the Boulder City Municipal Airport.

Flying air force A-10 close-air-support jets, Captain Lex Ingraham and his wingman, Captain Corky Kamansky, were patrolling the train track used by Amtrak's popular Empire Builder. On temporary assignment from the 47th Fighter Squadron at Barksdale AFB, the two aviators were experienced Warthog instructor pilots and veterans of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Flying low above the Columbia River south of the junction of the Snake and Columbia rivers, they were looking for any sign of sabotage or terrorist activity.

Other twin-engine A-10 "tank killers' from the 47th and from Davis-Monthan AFB, Arizona, were patrolling tracks and monitoring trains in the Northwest. Each jet was equipped with a single 30mm seven-barrel rotary cannon that fires milk-bottle-size rounds at a blistering pace. Many pilots who have flown the Warthog in combat claim the plane can lose one engine, half a tail, one third of a wing, and parts of the fuselage and still remain airborne.

Approaching a bend in the scenic river, Ingraham spotted a helicopter sitting directly on the tracks. The Eurocopter's rotors were turning and there were two men working beside the railroad. When the men heard the sound of the jet engines drowning the sound of the rotor blades, they glanced up at the A-10s and froze.

Ingraham keyed his radio. "Corky, see the helo on the tracks?"

"Roger, could be trouble."

"I'm going to check it out."

"Gotcha covered."

While Kamansky orbited overhead, Ingraham flew low over the men and then racked the A-10 into a steep turn around the suspicious helicopter. The men immediately dropped their tools and raced for the Eurocopter.

"We have a bite — let's go hot," Ingraham said, before he contacted the AWACS. The reply was nearly instantaneous.

"I'm rolling in hot," the flight leader said, in a calm, even voice. "Our customer looks like he needs a little off the top."

"A light trim."

The helicopter was about to lift off when Ingraham's Gatling gun ripped its tail to shreds. The beefy cannon made aluminum foil out of the enclosed tail rotor. The Eurocopter turned 90 degrees, jamming the twisted landing gear inside the railroad tracks.

"End of the line," Ingraham radioed.

Leaving the heavily damaged helicopter with the engines still running, three men emerged and sprinted for cover under the nearby fir trees.

"Boys, you shouldn't try to escape," Ingraham said under his breath. "You aren't going to like this, believe me." He rolled in again and gently squeezed the trigger. The huge cannon shells carved a wide swath in the trees about thirty feet in front of the trio. They skidded to a halt and changed directions, dodging and weaving through the fir trees.

"Corky, you have them in sight?"

"Got em."

"Your turn," Ingraham said, and then asked the AWACS controller to contact the nearest law enforcement agency.

Kamansky walked his rounds so close to the men that pieces of shredded bark and tree limbs were pummeling them. They stopped in their tracks and put their arms up, stretching them high above their heads.

With a few well-placed bursts of cannon fire, Kamansky herded them back into the open and continued to circle. A few minutes later a patrol cruiser came racing down the highway, followed shortly thereafter by a sheriff's deputy.

"Looks like this is a wrap," Kamansky radioed.

"Not exactly. Amtrak is headed this way."

Kamansky glanced up the tracks. "Perfect timing."

"I hope I didnt screw up the track," Ingraham said, as he rolled out of his orbit and shoved the throttles forward. "Cover the bad guys."

"Roger."

Approaching the train head on, Ingraham rapidly slowed the A-10 and extended the landing gear. Okay, guys, pay close attention. Haven't got a lot of time.

The shocked engineer, along with the bug-eyed passengers in the Sightseer Lounge, weren't sure what was going on when the mean-looking Warthog roared low overhead with the landing lights glaring.

Come on! Ingraham wrapped the plane around in a tight circle, rolling wings level just before he had to pull up to miss the engine.

That did the trick. The lightbulb came on and the Empire Builder began slowing, but it was going to be close.

Ingraham cleaned up the A-10 and climbed to 800 feet above the ground. The authorities had the terrorists in custody and Kamansky was circling leisurely at 1,500 feet. The train was almost stopped when it pulverized the Eurocopter, grinding it into twisted pieces of jagged metal.

The decision was made to transfer President Macklin and his staff from the E-4B to the safety of Cheyenne Mountain. However, they would delay the arrival of the 747 in Colorado Springs until more security personnel were in place. The vice presidents entourage and the joint chiefs were on their way back to Washington.

Fresh from a late-afternoon nap, President Macklin was sitting alone in his quarters when Hartwell Prost gendy knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Prost entered the compartment and wearily sat down. "Well," he began haltingly, "my good friends at the Agency are completely, totally embarrassed — again."

Macklin turned and stared out the window. "More bad news?"

"Shayhidi apparently slipped right by them when they had him cornered. They didnt know it at the time."

"Where?"

"At his hotel suite in Beaulieu-sur-Mer, France."

"What happened, what went wrong?"

"Our folks had local intelligence about his suite, but we weren't sure he was there."

"I assume he was."

"Yes, his breakfast was half eaten."

Macklin frowned and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Hartwell, I dont understand how these things keep happening, I really dont."

Chagrined, Prost remained silent.

"It makes us look really incompetent," the president said impatiendy. "Like we have a collective case of somnambulism."

"Fm fully aware of that, sir."

The president calmed himself. "The media is going to have me for lunch and then have the Agency for dessert."

"Sir, I'm sorry."

"Hartwell, its okay," Macklin said, and then softened his tone. "What happened? Give me the details."

"While we were getting our people in place, Shayhidi was whisked out of the hotel in disguise… right in front of our agents sitting in the lobby."

"How do we know that?" the president asked.

"The hotels assistant manager admitted Shayhidi was there but swore on his mother's grave that he didnt know how Shayhidi managed to disappear."

Macklin remained quiet.

"Now," Prost said with a tortured look, "after all this effort, hes disappeared and we have no leads — no idea which way he went."

"What about our people at the airport?"

"He didnt use the airport he normally frequents." Prost concealed his anger. "I apologize for this unmitigated mess."

"Its not your fault." The president tapped his friend on the forearm. "Youre not working at the Agency anymore."

Prost gently shook his head. "I know, but I don't handle things like this well. Neither do you."

"Look at it this way. The guy's running for his life." Macklin shrugged. "We're nipping at his heels and he's desperate, making mistakes and looking over his shoulder."

"True, he's definitely in a state of duress. Knows we're tracking him like a pack of hounds. But I can't handle any more screwups at Langley."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. His homes are partially destroyed," Macklin observed. "His corporate jet no longer exists, his yacht is on the bottom of the Mediterranean, his shipping empire is kaput, his entire world is in shambles, and he's being hunted like a serial killer. I doubt if he has much time to think about anything other than his personal survival."

"You're right, but I want him at the end of a rope."

"Actually," the president said lightly, "this is much worse for someone like Saeed Shayhidi, a twisted narcissist who craves the limelight. Shayhidi, who thought he was so clever, knows he has made a tragic blunder of galactic proportions." Macklin lowered his voice and clearly enunciated each word. "Shayhidi knows he made the dumbest move of his life, and he can never make it go away— ever."

"Well, that's one consolation." A faint smile touched Hartwell's mouth. "There is one piece of good news to report this afternoon."

"Good news," Macklin said with a soft chuckle. "Better get the doctor in here before you tell me any good news."

Prost explained about the A-10 pilots and the dynamite being buried under the railroad tracks.

"That is good news," the president said energetically. "We finally nailed them first. Have they been turned over to the FBI?"

"Not yet. Probably in the next hour or so."

"Good." Macklin stretched his arms and stifled a yawn. "What's our ETA in Colorado Springs?"

"Three-twenty A. M."

"What's the status of our strikes in Iran and Afghanistan?"

"The final briefing is in progress, the weather looks good, and the combined air operations center has reported that the mission is on schedule."

"Excellent. Keep me informed."

"Yes, sir."

The first strike on significant Middle Eastern air defenses was launching from the carrier. The E-2C Hawkeye was airborne and the F-14S and F/A-18S were being catapulted at a rapid rate. A second strike package was preparing to take to the skies when the first wave of aircraft were inbound to the carrier. A third strike would take off five hours later.

Many of the military's older unmanned aerial vehicles were being sacrificed to stimulate air defenses so they could be tagged and engaged. The Hunters, Pioneers, Gnat 750s, and the first generation of Predators were serving as decoys in high-risk areas. The disposable UAVs would remain on station until they were shot down or ran out of fuel.

F-15E Strike Eagles, A-10 Warthogs, and F-16 Vipers were tasked to hit primary targets between the strikes from Stennis. The schedule would alternate, with some strikes following on the heels of others while intervals went by with little activity at certain locations. The missions would be flexible, but never more than two hours would pass without a harassment flight of a two-plane section or a division of four aircraft. Search-and-rescue aircraft and helicopters would be on station for every attack.