Assurred Response

Chapter 7

Listening to the fighter pilots and the Hawkeye controller, Bergman began slowing the helicopter and aligning it with the bow of the ship. He and McLain could see the look of exhilaration on the faces of the young couple.

Red Bailey positioned the basket and secured the line from the hoist. The basket was the preferred method of lifting civilians because it allowed for the least amount of risk in an otherwise risky situation.

Bergman maneuvered the Dolphin over the bow as it plunged through the waves. Stabilizing the helicopter over the frightened couple, flight mechanic Earl Nogart began lowering Bailey in the basket. When the veteran PJ reached the deck, he jumped out. Bailey assisted Pace and Robin Woodbury into the basket. He seated them and then gave Nogart the signal to begin hoisting the couple. Suddenly, something didnt seem right. Bailey looked up at the same instant the hoist stopped. The basket was hanging twelve feet below the Dolphin, not going up or coming down. Paralyzed with fear, the doctor and his wife looked to Bailey for help.

Nogart tried everything he could to free the cable. It was no use. The hoist had malfunctioned and jammed.

"Sir, it s stuck!"

"What?" Bergman asked.

"The hoist is broken, wont go in either direction!"

Bergman looked to the north and saw the western end of Fire Island. He made a calculated decision and added power. "Well take them to shore and return for Red."

The Dolphin gathered speed, but Bergman couldnt go too fast with the rescue basket swinging underneath the helicopter. The shocked couple gripped the sides of the basket and leaned toward each other. Neither dared look over the side at the cold, angry sea.

Bailey knew what his pilot was doing, but he was concerned about the inbound fighters. Warm and comfortable in his wet suit, he sat down and waited for the carrier-based Hornets to appear.

Bergman swore under his breath and keyed the radio. "Salty Dog Four-oh-six, coast guard Dolphin."

"Charlie Golf, Salty Four-oh-six."

From the sound of Bergmans voice, Rosenbaum sensed trouble.

"Salty, we have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

Bergman explained the situation and estimated that he would be able to retrieve his PJ in approximately twelve to fifteen minutes.

Waiting to break out of the clouds, Rosenbaum glanced at his altimeter. "Okay, but we dont have much time."

"Roger that."

"Ringleader, Salty Four-oh-six, how are we looking?"

"Target — uh, the ship is eleven-thirty, thirty-three miles."

"Salty Four-oh-six." Rosenbaum again checked his altimeter as the jets descended through 7,000 feet at 1,500 feet a minute. "Salty Two, did you copy Charlie Golf?"

"That's affirmative."

"Okay, time is critical. Were going to strafe the ship until the helo returns, maybe punch a few holes near the waterline."

Worthington concentrated on flying in tight formation. "What about the rescue swimmer?"

"He's safe on the bow, no problem with him," Rosenbaum said, as the fighters passed 6,300 feet. "Were going to work on the stern, port side, nice and clean."

"Copy: stern, port side."

Click-click.

Each Hornet was fitted with a powerful M-61 rotary cannon mounted inside the nose of the aircraft. Equipped with six barrels, the Gatling gun could pour twenty-millimeter shells into a target at the rate of 6,000 rounds per minute. However, the gun carried only 568 rounds, requiring the pilot to shoot in short, accurate bursts.

A skilled aviator could work the cannon like an airborne buzz saw, spewing death and destruction in a confined area. You could smell the cordite and feel the gun through the airframe as the target was obliterated in front of your eyes. The experience was so mesmerizing that some pilots flew into the ground with their finger still pulling the trigger.

Descending through 2,000 feet, Rosenbaum began to slow his rate of descent. "Jon, we re not going to have much to work with, hard to achieve fifteen degrees nose down with an eight-hundred-foot ceiling."

"Any suggestions?" Worthington asked.

"Lets start as high as we can and not go below three hundred feet."

"Okay, but I'll be experimenting."

"That makes two of us."

At 900 feet, the Hornets began to break out of the clouds. They leveled at 800 feet under a ragged ceiling and low visibility. Rosenbaum saw the QM2 s wake directly in front of him and looked to the left. The jets were a half mile behind the ship.

Rosenbaum keyed his radio. "Okay, Salty Two, were going to make a pass up the port side of the ship and commence a port turn. When we roll in on the stern, we 11 arm em up. Coming off target, we 11 safe the guns and begin a left-hand pattern. That way we wont ever have our guns trained on the rescue swimmer."

"Copy."

Passing abeam the bow of the QM2, Rosenbaum began a left turn and called the Hawkeye. "Ringleader, Salty Four-oh-six, we have a positive ID on the Queen and were ready to dance."

"Youre cleared in hot."

"Roger that."

Although he wasn't being shot at, Rosenbaum made an aggressive roll-in maneuver toward the stern of the ship and flipped his master armament switch on. "One's in hot."

He concentrated on placing the gun sight reticle squarely on the hull where it met the waterline. Squeezing the trigger for a short burst, Rosenbaum watched as the water appeared to boil. Buuuurrrpp.

Salty 406 pulled off hard, clearing the ship by 200 feet and disarming his master arm switch. "One's off, nose cold."

Petty Officer Red Bailey was stunned when the Hornet flight leader began firing at the ship. He sprawled on his belly and prayed that nothing would ricochet toward the bow. God, I hope they don't start bombing before my ride gets back! He kept his head down and his eyes closed while the second fighter strafed the stern of the QM2. Buuuuuurrrrpp! The sound of the cannon reminded Bailey of a long, deep belch.

After each jet made another strafing pass, Bailey's curiosity began to get the best of him. He rose to his knees and watched the fighters attack the doomed ship. On the last run, the wingman barely cleared the cruise liner after his pass. Bailey drew in his breath. That was damn close.

Lieutenant Worthington felt the adrenaline shot to his heart as he disarmed the Gatling gun. "Twos off, nose cold." His voice was an octave higher than normal.

"Salty Two, you okay?" Rosenbaum asked.

Worthington pulled the Hornet into a tight left turn. Don't ever do that again. "I'll be okay as soon as I catch my breath."

"Salty Four-oh-six, what's the status of the ship?" the Hawkeye mission systems operator asked.

"We've made some progress; it's definitely taking on water."

"Are you making more strafing passes?"

"Negative, we're Winchester on ammo. Bombs are next."

"Copy."

"Salty Four-oh-six, coast guard Dolphin. We're five miles out."

"Roger."

Rosenbaum and Worthington circled the Queen Mary 2 while Jeff Bergman picked up his PJ. Red Bailey was a happy man once he was in the basket and airborne.

Looking to the north, Rosenbaum could see the ship was due south of Jones Beach State Park. Although she was taking on water, the majestic liner was still traveling at a high rate of speed. "Ringleader, Salty Four-oh-six is ready for the heavy hardware."

"You're cleared in hot, expedite every chance you get."

"What about the air traffic around JFK?" Rosenbaum asked.

"They're diverting incoming flights and holding everything else on the ground. You have priority."

"Roger that."

Rosenbaum flirted with the idea of making a single pass and dropping all four bombs at once, then discarded the notion. If something went wrong and he missed the ship, it would be up to Worthington to stop the QM2. "Salty Two, were going to drop one — repeat — one bomb at a time."

"Copy, one at a time."

Punching up the proper switches and buttons for bombing, Rosenbaum keyed the radio. "Jon, lets concentrate on hitting her amidships at the waterline. Keep the pattern tight, left-hand pattern."

"Amidships, left turns."

Rosenbaum selected the program to drop only one bomb at a time. Next, he chose auto-bombing mode and flipped the master armament switch on. "Ones in hot."

Rolling in on the ship, Rosenbaum snapped the nose down and placed the pipper on the center of QM2S hull at the waterline. He designated the aiming point, hit the pickle button, checked his altitude, started pulling up while following the displayed impact line, and checked his wings level. The Mark-84 2,ooo-pound bomb released a split second later.

"Salty Ones off, switches safe." Rosenbaum flinched when something flashed past his canopy. "What the hell!"

"Twos aborting!" Worthington said, as he pulled up. "Skipper, we have a news helo over the ship."

"Say again?"

"A dumb-ass in a news helo almost mid-aired you."

Agitated by the close call, Rosenbaum keyed his radio. "Ringleader, get this clown out of here — now!"

"We dont show anything, but were talking with the Feds."

After another trip around the pattern, Rosenbaum saw the helicopter depart toward New York City. "Okay, Jon, do your magic."

"Twos in hot." Worthington aimed slightly to the left of the gaping hole in the hull. A tremendous explosion blasted water over 200 feet into the air. The impact ripped open a section of the ship that joined the damage done by his skipper.

Rosenbaum's next Mark-84 penetrated the hull to the right of his first attack. The ship was beginning to list to port and had slowed a few knots.

"Okay, Jon, work your way aft, see if we can flood the lower decks."

"Goin aft."

Worthingtons bomb caused a secondary explosion. It produced a thick cloud of black smoke that trailed behind the badly damaged QM2.

On his next pass, Rosenbaum placed his third bomb in the center of the smoke billowing from the ship. A huge ball of fire accompanied the blast, and the mighty ship began to slow even more.

"Salty Two, try one near the bow."

"Copy."

Rolling in for his third pass, Worthington put his bomb through the hull sixty-five feet from the bow.

"Nice throw," Rosenbaum said.

Click-click.

Rosenbaum's last Mark-84 went high and exploded in the center of the shuffleboard-and-swimming-pool area on Deck 12. "Jon, I screwed up. You gotta finish her off."

"I'll give it my best." Worthington went for the same area where the fireball erupted from the ship. The ensuing explosion caused a powerful concussion that rocked Worthingtons plane as he pulled out of his dive. "I mustve hit the jackpot."

Banking so Worthington could join on his wing, Rosenbaum glanced at the other Hornet and did a double take. "Salty Two, you're smoking, trailing something from your belly."

"Yeah, things just got busy in here."

"Take it to JFK — now!"

"Roger that, skipper." Worthington turned directly toward John F. Kennedy International Airport.

"Ringleader, Salty Four-oh-six."

"Salty, we're talking to the tower at JFK — your playmate is cleared to land. What's the status of the ship?"

"It's badly listing and continuing to slow, but we need more hits, like in the next few minutes."

"We have bombers — ah, four minutes out and a Texaco standing by to give you a drink."

Rosenbaum checked his fuel and decided to play it safe. "I'm going to orbit overhead, then go in to JFK."

"Roger that, and — ah, hold overhead at eight thousand."

"Climbing to eight, Salty Four-oh-six."

Right on time, the other F/A-18 Hornets attacked the slow-moving ship. After the third aircraft simultaneously dropped two bombs, the grand ocean liner began to capsize southwest of Long Beach. With incredible precision and timing, the tactical jets continued their relentless assault on the Queen Mary 2.

Hartwell Prost called from the VIP helicopter when he left the White House landing pad. Molly silently swung into action and began preparing a hearty breakfast for Mr. Prost and his guests. Zachary, Jackie, and Scott assisted Molly while all four kept a watchful eye on the news concerning the beleaguered luxury liner. Wire-service reports were now confirming the worst fears: the entire crew of the QM2 and all the passengers had died from unknown causes.

A news helicopter was providing television coverage from a safe distance, but the enhanced images on the screen seemed much closer, especially when the bombs exploded. It was surprising how accurate and detailed the initial news reports were. The media professionals dedicated to monitoring the various radio scanners were doing a great job of separating fact from rumor. A few media sources were reporting that two people had been rescued from the ship, but the reports were unconfirmed.

The disaster was flashing around the world while international press sources began focusing on the appalling terrorist attack. Most of the commentators made comparisons to the horrific assault on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

The minute-by-minute updates on the tragic story were heart-wrenching. But watching fighter planes from the U. S. Navy and the marine corps strafe and bomb the battered ship were too much for many viewers. It was like watching the Twin Towers collapse in slow motion.

On a split screen, viewers could see additional helicopters taking off in the general direction of the Queen Mary 2. Another live broadcast showed dozens of rescue boats leaving foaming white wakes as they rushed to intercept the stricken ship. The crews were betting that some of the passengers might still be alive and would abandon ship.

Suddenly Fox News interrupted their broadcast with a devastating announcement. The anchor was just taking his chair when the camera began transmitting the live report. "This just in to Fox News. We have, as of this moment, received confirmation from senior members of the White House that Secretary of State Brett Shannon perished onboard the stricken Queen Mary 2. Initial reports state that his staff was with him. There are conflicting accounts of a delegation of lawmakers in his party."

The anchor continued to update the astounding story while U. S. Navy and marines corps planes continued to bombard the ill-fated QM2 on the split screen. For many viewers, the images were surreal. The eye transmitted the information to the brain, but processing it into reality was difficult at best.

Jackie, Scott, Molly, and Zachary stopped what they were doing when the mighty ship began rolling faster and then capsized. The turbulent waves were carrying scores of bodies away from the QM2 as she slipped beneath the water. Only her four-pod propulsion system and the red bottom of her hull protruded from the water. For most viewers, it was a horrifying sight.

Jackie was the first to find her voice. "Another phase of the jihad has begun," she said bitterly. "There's going to be hell to pay again, and I mean hell to pay."

"You're right," Scott said. He heard the sound of an approaching helicopter. "Hartwell's back."

When the national security adviser walked in, Zachary and Molly were putting the finishing touches on a buffet-style breakfast. Hartwell looked emotionally drained. He thanked Molly and Zachary and they left the room. The threesome quietly filled their plates and sat down in the breakfast nook adjacent to the kitchen.

No one spoke while Hartwell spread his napkin across his lap and reached for the coffee urn. He poured coffee to the brim of his cup. "The Berlin Wall has fallen, the Cold War is over, Saddam is history, and now we've entered another phase of the war on terrorism." Hartwell's eyes were full of contempt. "The eradication of the barbarians on this planet — every damn last one of them."

He explained the known details of the QM2 disaster to Jackie and Scott, followed by news of the tragedy aboard USS Truman.

Stunned by the magnitude of the two disasters, Jackie and Scott stopped eating and listened.

"And there's more." Hartwell leaned back in his chair. "Zheng Yen-Tsung was not your bomber in Texas. The Fort Worth policeman, who, by the way, is reported to be in good condition, told the FBI the driver of the car looked Middle Eastern. He only saw the man for a brief moment, but he remembers him having dark, deep-set eyes. Definitely not Oriental."

"Farkas," Jackie said. "Khaliq Farkas."

Hartwell nodded. "That would be my first guess."

"Ditto," Scott said. "Farkas is one of Shayhidi's most experienced thugs. He'll be in the middle of the action."

"That's how we see it." Hartwell reached for the briefing folder he brought from the White House. "We believe he's been in hiding outside the United States and had orders to eliminate the two of you before their next reign of terror began."

Scott glanced out the bay window. "Well, they had to start without our dead bodies." He caught Hartwell's attention. "What does the president plan to do?"

Prost took a sip of coffee. "As you saw after the attacks on New York City and Washington, assured response is the paradigm in our deterrent posture. We don't know where a lot of the terrorist leaders are, which embarrasses me a great deal, but Shayhidi occasionally surfaces in various places around the world. We're just never fast enough to snatch him before he disappears again, but I'm convinced we'll get him now."

"Echelon Two?" Jackie asked.

"Perhaps. He has social and business dealings all over the planet. He spends most of his time taking care of legitimate enterprises: shipping, banking, oil trading, charities, and other interests. He meets with the senior leaders in his terrorist organization, including Farkas, three or four times a year and then goes back to running his legitimate businesses."

Hartwell paused as if he were savoring the bouquet of a vintage Bordeaux. "We've created a large dent in Shayhidi's armor. For the past month, we've been able to track his new plane sixty-eight percent of the time."

"I don't understand," Jackie said.

"We bugged it," Hartwell admitted.

"That's great, terrific." Scott gave Hartwell a thumbs-up gesture. "The Bug Man?"

"Yes. We had some help from the Agency while the plane was undergoing an interior completion at Lufthansa Technik in Hamburg."

Scott allowed a brief smile, remembering shared beers and great ideas with the legendary CIA agent known as the Bug Man.

"He managed to install listening devices in the plane's cabin. The cockpit, where we really wanted access, was tightly sealed and unreachable in the amount of time he had."

Scott had a question. "Shayhidi never showed up to inspect the work while the plane was there?"

"Not once, but we were waiting. His pilots and the four guards who watched over the plane twenty-four hours a day were the only people we encountered."

Hartwell paused a moment when Molly walked in to refill their coffee urn. He thanked her and waited until she left the room. "Between Echelon Two and the listening devices, we've been able to keep fairly close tabs on Shayhidi, but not all the time. On many occasions, from what we've been able to cobble, Shayhidi gets off the plane at a given location and the pilots fly it to another airport. It's a cloak-and-dagger thing, and Shayhidi plays the game extremely well."

A momentary look of satisfaction crossed Hartwell's face. "At any rate, Mr. Saeed Shayhidi's daily or nightly routine is about to be inextricably altered — shattered is a better word for what's in store for him."

Hartwell folded his napkin on the table. "The president has a wide menu of options at his disposal. SecDef, General Chalmers, and I believe — when exercised — they will have a profound effect on Shayhidi, as well as on other terrorists. I don't know which options President Macklin will decide to use, but keep an eye on the news for the next few days."

Unable to shake the image of Brett Shannon from his thoughts, Hartwell extracted a few sheets of paper from his folder. "On to our project in the northwest. Marines from Camp Pendleton, the First Special Forces Group from Fort Lewis, and national guard units are being deployed along selected areas of the U. S.-Canadian border."

"What about surveillance?" Scott asked.

"Were putting on a full-court press, everything we have available, including two innovations from black programs." Hartwell studied his briefing points. "Taking into account where the three terrorists were killed by the U. S. Border Patrol agent, we would like to have you start at that point and do a low-level airborne search for anything suspicious."

He unfolded a highly detailed Great Falls sectional aeronautical chart and placed it on the table.

"From what we know, FBI, and CIA, there is a pattern emerging. It runs from the west side of the Montana-Idaho border to Coeur dAlene, to Boise, and then to the Twin Falls area."

Jackie surveyed the chart. "Are those the areas where the suspicious people have been congregating?"

"Middle Eastern?" Scott asked.

"For the most part, but there are a lot of Islamic extremists who dont share the indigenous characteristics of the Middle East. WeVe also been observing Orientals, Caucasians, blacks, Ethiopians, and so on."

"What about the nukes?" Jackie asked.

"We believe the other six bombs came in the same way, but where they are now is anyone's guess." Hartwell handed each of them a thin bound folder. "You'll meet the FBI special agent in charge at Coeur d'Alene. He's been there for several months and will brief you, share what they have, before you start an aerial search with the helicopter." He looked at Jackie. "We have a LongRanger ready."

"Sounds good to me, one of my favorites." She glanced at the sectional chart. "Where's the helo located?"

"It'll be at Spokane International day after tomorrow. Your plane — I'm assuming you'll fly your plane to Spokane — will be guarded around the clock at the FBO, Spokane Airways."

"Thanks," Scott said. "Appreciate it."

Hartwell handed the sectional chart to Jackie. "You re on your own. If you find anything or need anything, let me know."

"Well do it," Jackie said, as she and Scott rose from their chairs.

They shook hands with all around, thanked Molly and Zachary for breakfast, and walked to their rental car. Scott slipped behind the wheel but made no effort to start the car.

"Are you okay?" Jackie asked.

'I'm fine." Scott turned the ignition key. "I'll feel a lot better when we get our hands on those nukes."