Assurred Response

Chapter 23

Hugging the terrain, Tohir Makkawi carefully advanced the throttles as the silver B-25 southwest of the Muddy Mountains. His potential targets were easy to distinguish with the morning sun at his back. During their briefing before takeoff, Khaliq Farkas had left the final decision to Makkawi. He could choose any of the hotel casinos to crash his bomber into, but Farkas suggested one of the larger complexes in the heart of the famous gambling strip.

From a distance, Makkawi studied the Aladdin, Bellagio, Mandalay Bay, and a few other well-known landmarks. He particularly liked the tempting hotel casino known as Caesar s Palace. Makkawi had heard fascinating stories about Caesar s Palace from Saudi princes who vacationed at the hotel during their frequent visits to the United States. As he gazed at his choice of targets, a smile creased Makkawi s face. The rich and arrogant scions of wealth would have to evaluate new lodging accommodations.

Spying two F-16s flying 1,000 feet above the Las Vegas strip, Makkawi decided to make a wide circle to avoid the fighters.

The crewman/gunner sitting in the back of the plane was wistfully smoking a cigarette and looking forward to getting back on the ground. Why are we going around in circles? After the scary moments during the takeoff run, he was anxious to get through the landing phase of the mission. He had "enjoyed" all the flying he cared to experience for the rest of his life, especially with novice pilots.

Due to a hydraulic pump failure in the scheduled AWACS, an Airborne Warning and Control System aircraft was not yet covering the airspace over Lake Powell and Lake Mead. Air force fighters had been scrambled when the news about the Glen Canyon Dam reached Nellis AFB. Along with four F-16s from the New Mexico Air National Guard, the four Nellis-based F-16s proceeded to Lake Powell. They rendezvoused over Page, Arizona, with a KC-135 tanker and then split up in four sections to hunt for the illusive B-25S.

With the help of controllers who occasionally picked up a primary radar return from the bombers, the ANG fighter pilots from Kirtland AFB, Albuquerque, were first on the prowl. Continuing reports from eyewitnesses in the air and on the ground matched what the controllers were observing.

Three other F-16s were now patrolling the skies over Nellis AFB and the nearby city of Las Vegas. The fighter pilots cast occasional glances at the jammed highways and streets, where panicked vacationers and gamblers scurried to get out of town. Dozens of emergency vehicles and law enforcement cruisers were racing to various accident scenes.

A large number of sport utility vehicles had gone off-road to get around the growing traffic jams. McCarran International Airport was in total gridlock, with nothing moving on the ground or in the air. Local law-enforcement agencies were providing the front line of security for the airport and its support facilities.

Although he didnt know it, Tohir Makkawi had been discovered. His bomber was being pursued by two New Mexico Air National Guard F-16s in afterburner — full blower and supersonic. Known as the Tacos, the ANG squadron was blessed with an abundance of talented aviators. The pilots chasing the B-25 were airline captains who had many years of experience in fighters.

Makkawi, in his quest for more speed, intentionally overboosted the radial engines. The heavily vibrating Wright Cyclones weren't going to last much longer, but Makkawi was not concerned. He only needed two more minutes of maximum power and his mission would be accomplished. The infidels remaining in Caesars Palace were in for the shock of their lives. The majority of the decadent sinners did not have long to live. Makkawi would soon be with Allah, and Khaliq Farkas would be proud of his successful trainee.

The crewman in the rear of the plane was wondering why they were flying so low and why the engine noise had increased so much. He guessed it was an evasive maneuver and lit another cigarette. They would soon be on the ground. He was looking forward to going back into sleep mode.

Makkawi s B-25 was making a heading change when Lieutenant Colonel Clay Yeatts, leader of the ANG section, screeched into position at the bomber's six o'clock. Taco One used his M61 20mm Vulcan cannon to blast the right rudder completely off the bomber's horizontal stabilizer.

Another barrage of shells ripped the right engine cowling to pieces, sending a thick stream of black oil flowing from the wing. The engine caught fire as Yeatts swung smoothly over to the left side of the plane and worked the left engine over. It lasted only a few seconds before a blazing streak of fire erupted from the cowling.

The right landing gear dropped out of its wheel well as the B-25 began a steep bank to the right. Yeatts continued to pour cannon fire into the burning plane as it slow-rolled onto its back and crashed nose first near the southern boundary of the Desert Rose Golf Course.

A foursome that heard the three planes approaching ran for cover and spread-eagled with their hands over their heads. They were only slightly injured by the flying debris that hurtled over them. They unanimously decided to adjourn to the nineteenth hole and have a round of Bloody Marys.

The fiercely burning wreckage of the bomber was lying in a crater seven miles from Caesar's Palace. The Tacos had come through with a grand slam, saving the lives of many unsuspecting tourists and hotel workers.

The news about the B-25 cras^ on the outskirts of the Las Vegas strip flashed through the city in a matter of minutes. With black smoke still rising into the sky, a second wave of visitors scrambled to check out of their hotels and leave the city. Only the hard-core gamblers remained. Most of the city's 128,000 motel and hotel rooms were now vacant.

The massive command center was a beehive of activity as hundreds of military aircraft filled the skies. General-aviation airplanes and airliners were again ordered to land at the nearest suitable airport. Sanitizing the airspace was a major priority for NORAD and the FAA.

With the surprising efficiency gained after September 11, there were soon hundreds of fighters, tankers, and surveillance aircraft airborne to protect the U. S. heartland from other deadly terrorist attacks. The tankers were quickly assigned to predetermined refueling tracks at strategic locations around the United States. No one had any idea where or when the next assault would take place. The frontline military aircraft were given whatever priority they needed to be in a position to protect the nation.

Navy E-2C Hawkeyes, air force E-3 AWACS, and U. S. Customs P-3 Orions were pressed into the surveillance role to detect, monitor, and assess anything airborne that might constitute a threat. They also helped to streamline the around-the-clock combat air patrols over major cities. The fighters were constantly cycling off and on the tankers until they returned to their bases to switch crews. Many other fighter aircraft at strategic locations were on ground alert.

Fifteen military transport planes were assigned to fly to various civilian airports to collect stranded airline pilots and return them to their military air guard units. During the interim, many guard pilots were flying double shifts or volunteering for duty at the nearest base. A host of retired military personnel of all ranks began showing up at bases to help in any way possible.

President Macklin was receiving the latest brief on the twin disasters in the Southwest. The U. S. director of homeland security, the head of FEMA, and many other directors of federal and state organizations were swinging into action. Macklin gathered his top advisers in a private conference room at NORAD. The mood was somber.

"Have a seat, gendemen," the president said. That he was outraged was clearly evident by the set of his jaw. "Pete, you and Les plan for multiple strikes on our primary terrorist targets, military targets first. Suppress enemy air defenses, airfields, tactical aircraft, triple-A sites, SAMS, weapons storage and assembly facilities, and command-and-control centers. Thoroughly neutralize them with cruise missiles first."

Hartwell Prost caught Macklins attention. "We should use carpet bombing to flatten every terrorist training camp on our list, including the new ones under construction and the ones they're currently rebuilding. The message for the terrorists and the leaders of the countries that support them has to be stunning — paralyzing."

"I agree," the president said. "The next phase needs to include the states' infrastructure — power plants, major dams, bridges, petroleum storage facilities, and main highways and roads. We are literally going to bomb them into submission. No peace talks, no compromises, no settlements, no bullshit — period!" The president turned to General Chalmers. "Les, which carrier do we have in the North Arabian Sea?"

"Stennis, sir."

"How soon can we have a second carrier in place?"

"Four days, maybe five. Washington has left Singapore, probably in the Strait of Malacca as we speak."

"Good. Start hitting them with air force and carrier assets as soon as possible. We'll step it up when the second carrier is on station. We'll use whatever we need to get a handle on this problem. Everything is on the table — theater nukes if we have to go that far."

Khaliq Farkas remembered seeing the rare float-equipped Caravan circle the Bryce Canyon airport. He was certain it was the two American operatives. They were like a plague, continuing to torment him. While Farkas tried to think of a way to escape his pursuers, he coaxed the bomber to climb at 150 feet per minute. With only one engine operating, he didn't want to get too slow and lose control of the airplane.

Farkas pressed the intercom button to talk to his crewman in the back. "Where's the plane, can you see it?"

"It's directly above and behind us."

"Can you get another shot at it?"

"I cant lean out far enough to take a shot. The wind blast is too strong to aim precisely."

Farkas knew his time was limited. "If they try to pull alongside again, shoot at their engine."

"Fll try my best."

"You better do your best," Farkas growled. "These people will kill us."

Knowing Farkass explosive personality, the crewman remained silent.

They were nearing Red Lake, an isolated dry lake, when Farkas made radio contact with the helicopter pilot waiting to fly them to safety. They quickly decided on a course of action. The helicopter would land next to the B-25 an(^ ^ ^ people in the Caravan attempted to interfere, the gunner in the helo would shoot them down. That seemed like a reasonable solution, but Farkas had another plan. The timing had to be right, but he knew the risky idea could work.

"He turned the float into a sieve," Jackie said, and looked into the passenger cabin. Two windows were shattered, and the interior was riddled with rounds from the AK-47. "That definitely eliminates a water landing."

"That's why we have wheels too — options, lots of options."

"If they aren't damaged," she countered.

"Remember the word optimistic?"

"That's not exactly the word that comes to mind at the moment."

Scott glanced at the bomber. "I believe we need some firepower, take out the guy in the back."

"The MP-5?"

"Yeah, that should do it."

She handed him the compact submachine gun.

"You have the airplane."

"I've got it," she said.

He lowered his seat to make himself more comfortable.

"Don't shoot through the prop," she warned.

"Not a chance."

"Right."

Scott opened the small triangle-shaped vent window in the forward section of the pilot's door window. "If you come up on his right side, say about a forty-five-degree angle, 111 have a clear field of fire if he shows himself."

She smoothly added power.

"Easy, looking good." Scott checked to make sure the weapon was in the full automatic position and then stuck the short muzzle through the vent. He braced the submachine gun against the back of the small window.

Jackie moved into position and stabilized the Caravan close to the bomber. She kept one hand on the yoke and the other on the thrust lever, constantly making small corrections.

After a few seconds, the unwitting man appeared with his AK-47 braced against his shoulder. Before the terrorist could take aim, Scott squeezed the trigger and the man staggered backward and fell over. He tried to get up, but only managed to get to his hands and knees before he collapsed next to his assault rifle. Jackie maintained position for another minute, but no one else appeared at the opening.

"Okay, let's move back," Scott said as he kept the submachine gun trained on the B-25.

Jackie eased the power. "Nice work, neat and clean."

"I have an idea," Scott said, as he raised his seat and placed the submachine gun on the floor. "I'll take the airplane."

"You have it."

"Now stay with me," Scott said, as he stabilized in position behind the bomber. "I think we can stop him right now."

"You think we can shoot up his other engine?"

"No, not with what we have."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not liking this idea."

"Jackie, these floats—"

"No, we're not going to stick a float into the prop arc, not even going to think about it: absolutely stupid."

"You have to trust me on this," he said, moving forward over the bomber. "This will work. We have to force him down."

She caught his eye. "This is over-the-edge stupidity."

"Thats why I thought of it. Keep the faith."

Still leery she stared at him for a moment. "Have you noticed the twin tails, the two obstacles sticking up at the back of the fuselage?"

Scott concentrated on positioning the Caravan directly over the bomber. "Our plane is about twelve to fourteen feet shorter. The Blues fly with three feet of wing overlap."

"We re not the Blue Angels," she protested.

"Relax."

Jackie cinched her seat restraints. "If we live through this, I'm going to find some professional help — for you."

"Hey, we've flown tighter formation than this."

"Not with someone who has a fervent desire to kill us."

Scott had to move fast before Farkas figured out what was happening. When the forward third of the huge left float was even with the B-25's propeller arc, he eased the Caravan down a few feet. Steady, keep it coming. Another foot down, and only inches separated the float and the spinning propeller. Scott deftly eased the yoke forward I'm close, hang on, be smooth.

The violent collision produced an anguishing combination of screeching and thudding. Metal flew in every direction, puncturing the fuselage of the bomber and the belly of the Caravan.

At the moment of contact, Scott snatched the yoke back. The moderately damaged Caravan shot straight up, rolling away from the bomber. After clearing the B-25, Scott rolled the airplane wings level and moved toward the mortally wounded warbird.

"Farkas has a B-25 g^der," Scott exclaimed, as the bomber's smoking left engine came to an abrupt stop. Three twenty-inch stubs protruded from the propeller hub. "He's finished. We got him!" Then Scott looked at Jackie. "Are you okay?" he asked, noting her ashen complexion and wide eyes. "You can start breathing now."

"I need a double martini. It's an emergency."

Scott turned to watch the bomber gradually nose over and begin a steep, spiraling descent. After several revolutions, the doomed B-25 Mitchell crashed two miles from the isolated dry lake. Having taken off with a light load of fuel, when the bomber slammed into terra firma, there was a bright flash from the explosion but little fire.

"Farkas is finished — history!" Jackie was jubilant. She looked at the twisted wreckage. "We finally nailed him!"

"That we did," Scott said, as he banked the Caravan. "His luck finally ran out — maybe ours too."

"The loose nukes?" she asked.

"Yes. But Shayhidi knows where the other four bombs are located."

Flying in a wide circle around the wreckage, Scott was surveying the crash site when two ANG F-16s from the Tacos pulled alongside. The pilots, Major JoEllen Janssen and Captain Ernie Underwood, had seen the bomber crash.

When they were abreast of the Caravan, both were amazed at the damage it had suffered. Along with a multitude of holes in the fuselage, the forward third of the left float was gone. What was left of the big float was open to the wind and had jagged edges all around the opening.

Adjusting the trim due to the yaw caused by the open float, Scott was startled when he glanced out and saw the F-16s. "We have company, and I dont think they're too happy."

"Where were they five minutes ago?" Jackie asked, switching the aircraft radio to 121.5 VHF, the civilian emergency frequency monitored by military aircraft. Jackie recognized the F-16's tail logo. "Tacos, Caravan November Three-Twenty-Three Fox Lima on guard."

The other female voice was surprised. "Three Fox Lima, how do you know the Tacos?"

"I'm a former F-16 pilot, and the guy next to me is a former marine aviator — Harriers."

There was an uneasy pause.

"Did you have a midair with the bomber?" Janssen asked.

"Uh… I'm going to toss that question to the attack pilot."

Scott keyed the radio. "Tacos, its a long story. That was the B-25 that dropped the nuke on Hoover Dam. We saw him do it and chased him down after his right engine failed; couldn't let him get away."

"I see," Major Janssen said, a trace of suspicion in her voice.

With the tension ebbing, Scott and Jackie glanced at each other before Scott keyed the radio. "We would sure like to buy you and your wingman an adult beverage if you'll escort us to Nellis."

"Why Nellis?"

"I need to put this thing down on grass, and Nellis has a nice golf course."

"Okay," Janssen radioed, "lets go to Nellis."

"Roger that." Scott turned to Jackie. "You might want to call Wakefield, explain the houseboat situation."

She favored Scott with a thin smile. "Fd like to give him a piece of my mind."

Running low on fuel, the Taco F-16s left the plodding Caravan behind and raced toward Nellis AFB. After explaining the unusual situation to the senior tower controller, Major JoEllen Janssen made arrangements to have the crash crew standing by at the golf course. The links were being cleared while the damaged Cessna limped to the base.

Jackie was flying the Cessna while Scott was on the satellite phone with their secretary. He had been unable to reach Hartwell Prost. After many holds for Mary Beth to use another phone to communicate with Hartwell's office, Scott finally signed off. "Were all set."

"How's that?"

"Mary Beth contacted Tim Covington in Prost's office. Another Two-oh-six LongRanger will be available for us, and a new float-equipped Caravan will be ordered for the FBO at Boise."

"Sounds good," Jackie said. "First, we have to survive this landing."

He stowed the satellite phone in the back of Jackie's seat and reached for the flight controls. "I'll take it."

"You have it."

Los Angeles Center handed the Caravan to Approach Control, who in turn handed it off to Nellis Tower.

Scott called the tower, completed the landing checklist, and lowered the flaps. "Do you want to move to the back?"

Jackie considered the option. "No, I'm fine."

"Nellis Tower," Scott radioed, "Caravan Three-Two-Three Fox Lima would like to circle the golf course, see what we have."

"Two-Three Fox Lima, that's approved. The course has been cleared, winds are calm, and you're cleared to land on any freeway-fairway."

"Three Fox Lima, appreciate the assistance."

"No problem."

Scott circled the course twice and decided on a long fairway with few hazards. "Cinch up tight."

"I can barely breathe."

He extended his approach and turned on final. Coming in low, slow, and flat, Scott was hanging on the prop at 67 knots. When he knew he had the fairway made, he shut down the engine and turned everything off, including both of the fuel tanks. "Brace yourself."

"I am," she said tight-lipped. "Dont catch a sand trap."

Holding the nose up as the airspeed rapidly dwindled, Scott allowed the Caravan to gently touch down on the aft section of the floats. "Come on, we're almost home."

He held the yoke back, trying to nurse the nose down as slowly as possible. "Easy, nice and smooth."

The next few seconds became a blur as the floats settled on the fairway and began sliding over the grass.

"Were down," Scott said, as he let his breath out.

Without warning, the jagged bottom of the left float dug in like a shovel, violently yawing the Caravan to the left. The right wingtip hit the ground with enough force to bend the outboard section upward two feet. The plane rocked up on its nose, teetered a brief moment, and then smashed down with a resounding thud.

"Lets get out of here," Scott said, as they exited from their respective doors and moved away from the battered plane. They glanced at the idle air force crash trucks.

Jackie gave Scott a stern look. "Well, that was exciting — enough for today."

After gathering their luggage and weapons from the Caravan, Jackie and Scott gladly accepted a ride to Las Vegas. The young first lieutenant, familiar with the Las Vegas strip, recommended a hotel. They thanked him, checked in, dumped their belongings in their suite, and went straight to the cocktail lounge.

The bar was practically empty, as were the streets and casinos. The normally crowded city had become a ghost town. Although the prevailing winds were west to east, a majority of visitors deserted the city in a panic. They were afraid of the fallout from the nuclear bomb dropped at Hoover Dam, thirty-seven miles east-southeast.

Enjoying a refreshingly cold draft beer, Jackie and Scott sat quietly, mesmerized by the live television coverage from Lake Powell and Lake Mead. Scott leaned his elbows on the bar. "Can you believe this is actually happening?"

"After September eleventh, I can believe anything."

They watched as news helicopters showed the devastation at Lake Powell. From the northern tip of the lake at Dirty Devil River to the collapsed Glen Canyon Dam, the scenes were astonishing and surreal. The attack turned a pristine lake into a sea of mud in a matter of hours. The marinas, including Bullfrog, Halls Crossing, Wahweap, and Dangling Rope, were like scenes from a war movie.

Houseboats, fishing boats, sailboats, and expensive cabin cruisers were resting on the bottom of the muddy lake, some hanging from their mooring lines. Dangling Rope Marina, only accessible by boat before the dam was destroyed, was now indistinguishable from the landmass that surrounded it.

The footage and narration continued as the story moved to the shattered dam and then down the Colorado River to the Grand Canyon. The aerial tour above the canyon rim was graphic enough to know that the disaster was far from over.

The live shots of the debris-strewn Grand Canyon revealed the awesome destruction the powerful flood generated. Nothing in the sea of debris and mud was moving. The stories of the scenes of horror and the unselfish acts of heroism were both heartbreaking and heartwarming.

"Let s go to our room and unwind," Jackie suggested. "We need to get organized and find out about our helicopter."

As they entered their suite, the sat phone rang. Scott answered it and mainly listened while Jackie turned on the television. He walked to the window, stared at the lifeless main strip, and then sadly signed off.

Jackie glanced at Scott. The usual twinkle in his eye was gone. 41 We cant catch a break — too much to ask."

"Whats wrong?"

"That was Tim Covington."

"How'd he get our number?" she asked.

"Mary Beth."

Jackie felt a knot in her stomach. "Out with it."

"There was only one body in the B-25."

She shook her head. "No, there were two people," Jackie insisted. "Farkas and the guy in the back."

"Jackie, there was only one body in the wreckage, and it wasn't Farkas."

Unblinking, she stared at him for a few seconds. "He bailed out?" she rationalized.

"Must have. No one survives when a plane goes straight in at that speed — impossible to survive."

"I'll be damned," she said, in disbelief. "How did we miss seeing him?"

"Just one of those days," he said, in a tight voice. "Ready for that martini?"

"Yes, lets call room service. Make mine a double."