Cloudburst

Eleven FIRST BLOOD

Captain Hendrickson sat once again in the seat. It had been an upright bed for him, as well as his work chair. It was not meant to be the former. Flight seats, however comfortable during hours aloft, were not designed for sleeping. His neck ached and his shoulders had a sharp, pulsing pain running the length of each blade. Discomfort was shaping up to be the norm for this journey. Even going to the head was a luxury, considering how long his bladder had been full. The same went for Buzz, who was finally enjoying the same relief.

The quiet one, the one the leader called Abu, was with the captain. Hendrickson thought there were four of them, though only three had been seen. Another was referred to often by the others. Thoughts of overpowering the one with him were ridiculous, the captain told himself. He could plan it, though, an act that at least gave him a sense of power.

For the hijackers there would always be a feeling of fear. They would constantly have to be on guard. The captain thought that was a laugh, that this whole thing might give the hijackers ulcers.

In the end, though, he felt more helpless than anything. This was his aircraft, and these were his passengers. He was responsible for each and every one of them. It made him sick to know that the best he could do at the moment was nothing.

Buzz returned, looking somewhat refreshed. The water on his collar showed that he had splashed himself. With him was the big hijacker, the brute. None of them had been overtly violent yet, but this one had it in him. Hendrickson could tell by the eyes. They had a wild quality.

Abu exchanged a few words with Wael before leaving the flight deck. Buzz returned to his seat. Its cushion was still wet with perspiration.

“I think we’re leaving soon.” Buzz shifted in the warm seat. His back still felt prickly.

“When?”

“I don’t know. I heard them talking outside the head. My Arabic is pretty damn limited.” Buzz laughed.

Wael cast an angry look at the jovial Americans. He could not understand their words. What was it that made them laugh? he was thinking. They should be afraid.

“I don’t think Kong here can understand us,” Buzz said in his best deadpan. The lack of reaction confirmed his suspicion.

“I think you’re right.” The captain checked his AC system readings. Power was still coming from the GPU, which had been changed three times so far. Each truck-mounted generator could work only so long before servicing was needed. At least they had power, and the luxuries and necessities that it allowed. Some hijackers had ruled under harsh and nearly unbearable conditions, not allowing any power to be supplied once the aircraft’s built-in APU had exhausted its oil source. Maybe these ‘tough guys’ liked their comforts, the captain thought.

“At least we’ll be doing something besides just sitting here,” Buzz commented.

“Earn our pay.”

Buzz nodded, instinctively putting his harness on, but letting it hang loose. Both men turned when the door opened. The head terrorist, the one the others called Mohammed, came in. His clothing was different from before. He now looked the same as the others: green fatigues. The Mini-Uzi hung from his shoulder.

“Get ready to fly.” Hadad motioned to the control panel. Its alien markings and devices did not interest him. “We leave in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll need to check the exterior of my aircraft.”

Hadad brought the small submachine gun up in his right hand, pointing at the captain. It looked almost like a toy.

“You do not need to,” Hadad enunciated slowly. “And you will not. Your tricks will not fool me.”

Captain Hendrickson half stood, leaning awkwardly on the armrest, his body twisted to face the hijacker. “Listen, if you want this aircraft to fly safely, then either I or my first officer must inspect the undercarriage and exterior. This runway is not the best in the world, so I have no idea what was kicked up when we landed. Do you understand?”

“Do I understand?” Hadad smiled, his head tilting quizzically. The barrel came up roughly in the soft flesh where jaw met neck. “I think you do not understand, Cap-tan.” He mockingly emphasized the rank. “You will fly this plane and you will do it without going outside to perform your trickery. The plane is fine.”

“I am not tryi—” The Uzi pressed harder. Hendrickson was sure he could feel the barrel in the back of his mouth.

“Shut up! I am talking, and I am tired of your defiance!” Hadad screamed. “You have done nothing but defy my orders! You will learn to do as you are told!”

“Raghead asshole!” Buzz reached for the Uzi pointing at him, but missed, grabbing Wael’s web belt instead.

Hadad saw out of the comer of his eye Wael’s weapon come back in preparation to strike the co-pilot.

“Wael!” Hadad’s strong grip locked on his comrade’s arm, holding it back like a coiled snake.

Buzz glared at the wild eyes staring down at him. He felt the hot breath of his would-be attacker expelling from the flared nostrils. It smelled sweet and spiced, maybe from the food they brought on board. Wael lowered the Uzi cautiously. Buzz released his hold in a quick motion, holding his hands open as if gesturing surrender.

Hadad turned back to the captain. The barrel was still rammed straight up, the gun held tightly in his left hand. Hendrickson’s head was tilted back by the pressure, his eyes somewhat downcast to look directly at his tormentor. “You must learn, Cap-tan. And your number two. I am in command…total command. This is my plane. You, your number two, all the passengers will die if I decide it is to be. You no longer have any power.” His voice eased as he drew back. “Does it trouble you that a lowly Palestinian now rules over your domain? Ah! Of course it does, Cap-tan. You would kill me without a thought, so be assured that I will do the same. Now, you will learn that this is true, and when I am finished I will ask, ‘Do you understand?’ “ The Uzi was withdrawn. “Sit and watch.”

The captain sank into his seat, never letting his eyes leave Hadad. Buzz turned back to his console; he could no longer control himself while looking at the pirates.

There was a rapid burst of commands in Arabic from Hadad. Wael gave the pilots a departing look, removed a grenade from his webbing, and disappeared through the door.

Captain Hendrickson watched the head terrorist as a crooked smile came from one side of his mouth.

Below, the passenger deck instantly was filled with the noise coming from the forward cabin. Wael bounded down the stairs from the lounge and trotted down the left-side aisle, screaming in his native language. The sound, a pulsing wail, was a tirade of gibberish to nearly all of the passengers, but frightening still.

Abu ran forward from the aft cabin to meet Wael. The huge terrorist was waving his Uzi in one hand and displaying a pinless grenade in the other. Those with aisle seats leaned away from the ranting giant. The two terrorists exchanged a few sentences before Wael moved forward again, taunting the hostages. Abu followed closely. From the rear Abdul walked slowly, almost casually, chewing a mouthful of dates. He, too, pulled the pin from a grenade and held it above his head for all to see.

Abu watched as the wild man erupted from his comrade.

His sub-machine gun occasionally pointed at a single target, usually a woman, who would begin to cry. Wael thought that it was great fun to frighten the Americans. It was so easy. They cringed at the sight of the massive, dark figure standing over them. A few times he would hold the grenade inches from a terrified face and berate the person with invectives they could not understand. Some were stoic and stubborn. Wael could see those and avoided them — he was going for an effect. One elderly man protested when his wife was the recipient of Wael’s furor. The metal stock of his Uzi smashed dead center on the man’s face, breaking the nose and sending him backward into his seat where his wife shielded him with her body.

A few rows forward Wael stopped and called for Abu. His eyes were fixed on a man in the center seat on the left.

“You.” Abu pointed to the man. “Are you alone?”

Uncertainty as to whether or not he should answer kept him silent.

“You are alone! You are! Hands on your head — now!” The hands came up, and the chosen one looked to those next to him, but they just looked away. “Get up! Get up!” Abu kept the Uzi leveled at the man as he slowly rose. His light blue shirt was untucked and wrinkled, and his shaggy hair was obviously only hand-combed. He still spoke nothing as he squeezed past a bespectacled young lady whose hands covered her mouth.

“Move forward. Up the stairs.” The gun directed him with forceful jabs in the back. Wael followed, leaving Abdul to watch the hostages. He stood by the forward galley. It gave him a good vantage point from which to survey the front section and all the way to the rear of the aircraft, down the left aisle.

The door to the cockpit opened. Hadad held it back so the pilots could see into the lounge. Buzz saw the man standing a few feet from the door. His hands were atop his head, and his feet were slightly parted. He was young, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four. Probably one of the thousands of grad students from America who ventured to Europe each summer. Just a kid.

Captain Hendrickson looked away from the confused young man. A sacrifice, then. That’s the lesson. He looked up again to Hadad. “Don’t.” It was said as.a wishful command. He knew nothing else to say.

“Watch and learn, Cap-tan.” Hadad clicked the selector switch on his Uzi to single shot. The safety was already off. With one hand he aimed at the center of the man’s chest and fired a single 9mm round, propelling his upper body backward. His hands came down from his head as he fell, but never made it to a position to break the fall. Unconsciousness enveloped him before his body hit the floor. He lay with his legs apart and arms outstretched to each side. Two streams of blood came from the wound, one on each side of the chest, turning the brown carpet a darker shade. The eyes were open but lifeless. They stared at the ceiling with an expression of confusion still on the face.

“Put the body on the wing.” Hadad left the door open. Abu and Wael lifted the body by the arms and legs. They carried it to the stairs and dropped it with a swing onto the steps, letting gravity do the work. A few seconds later screams from below could be heard on the flight deck.

The captain felt what fingernails he had dig into the sturdy padding of the armrest. Buzz simply turned away.

“Now, Cap-tan, have you learned what will happen when you defy me?” There was no answer, just a look. Hadad couldn’t tell what it meant. “Get the plane ready.”

Hendrickson and his first officer felt sick as they quietly began the preflight routine by reflex. It was instinct now, just a survival drive. Get the aircraft ready, up, and down again safely — wherever that might be. Their duties would take over their minds and put the ugly incident away. Not gone, just away.

Hadad had calculated this one perfectly. They would obey his commands, for they feared too much for their passengers. He smiled at their backs as they chattered and twisted dials and pressed buttons. Tough old American soldiers, you forget too easily.

The watch teams were constantly monitoring Benina, as they had since the initial catch of the aircraft. It hadn’t been difficult considering its stationary position. Mostly they were zooming in and out on the scene, and once Number 8601 had needed to be moved to avoid some thick cloud cover. The team at Belvoir knew the severity of the situation, at least the situation they were aware of. At CSOC in Colorado Springs the controllers were monitoring their own dilemma: Number 8601 was almost out of fuel. So desperate was it that the general at CSOC insisted on a direct order from the secretary before maneuvering his $1 billion bird.

On the seventy-inch monitor scenes were replayed over and over in real time. Soldiers would sit on or around a military vehicle. One would leave, then come back. Officers would occasionally walk into the frame to survey the aircraft or talk to the troops. One, a short, balding man — a captain, they thought — was a frequent visitor. Every second was recorded on disk, to be later enlarged, enhanced, and analyzed, though ‘later’ meant half an hour as opposed to a few weeks under usual circumstances.

“Gotcha,” the senior tech exclaimed. She was former Navy out only a few years.

“Recorders and VDI are nominal, Jen. What’s up?”

“Starboard wing door, foreground. That’s…what’s the number?”

The junior tech looked at his notes. “Number three door.” He entered something on the side keyboard. “Got it. Marie 1347 local, 1247 Zulu. Look there.” A light cursor in the shape of an arrow moved across to the point. “That’s a pumper; they’re gonna fuel.”

“Oh God.” Jenny’s eyes focused on the number three door.

“Shit.”

“Zoom in, Matt. Just a little.”

The image grew of a person stepping onto the wing. It was a man. He wore military clothing, but there was no weapon. It was obvious why.

He dragged the body by its feet out to a spot above the inboard engine. A second man emerged and walked out on the wing, holding two weapons while they stood next to the body. They reentered a minute later. The body lay face up with its arms outstretched and above the head, as though crucified.

“They drew first blood, Jen.”

“Yeah. You better call the super in.”

Jenny continued to watch as the supervisor was summoned. Not long after the men left the wing the pumper truck connected its hoses to the underground pipeline and to the underside of the 747’s wing. Topping off the tanks didn’t take long; little fuel was used between Athens and Benghazi. When fueling was complete a tow vehicle darted under the wing and hooked up to the nose wheel.

Moments later, with the supervisor in the watch center, the big jet was pushed back from the spot it had occupied for just over a day. All the troops were gone. Just the aircraft and the tow vehicle were in frame.

The supervisor asked for the phone. “Get me a line to the White House.” He held the phone to his ear, waiting for the connection.

“There she goes,” Matt said. The tow unhooked and moved out of frame. He increased the field of view to include the entire tarmac just as the four turbofans came to life.

The four engines whined at idle, not fast enough to move her but sufficient to circulate fluids within the turbines and provide power to the other systems. Hendrickson gave the instruments a final check.

“Can I contact the tower for weather and clearance?” the captain asked.

“There is no need.” The answer came from behind. “Just fly.”

In front was a shimmering road of cement — the taxiway — that ran parallel to the runway. Both pilots looked over the taxiway. It was covered with a layer of dust, with drifting swirls, reminiscent of sandbars stretching the width of the thoroughfare.

“Hand me those binocs,” the captain said. Buzz handed the glasses over, watching as Hendrickson dialed in and scanned the runway from left to right, leaning forward to his console for a better vantage. Its condition wasn’t any better than the taxiway. “That thing hasn’t been swept in days.” He realized they had landed on all the crud scattered over it. “Look.” The glasses were passed back to Buzz.

“So what do we do different?” Buzz asked from behind the binoculars.

“Besides pray? I don’t know.” The captain sat back and twisted his body into what should have been a comfortable position, but wasn’t.

“Here.” Buzz handed the performance calculations over. These were figured by a computer and took into account the aircraft’s weight and load, altitude of the airport, and weather conditions present. They were always hand-checked by the first officer, then displayed along with other information on the displays. Still, there was an element of uncertainty. “Some of it’s just a guess.”

“I know.”

“I allowed an extra five knots, just in case,” Buzz added. His tone didn’t display much confidence in his words, which got him a furrowed-brow look from the captain. “I don’t have any idea what they loaded.”

Hendrickson looked at the written figures. “Let’s try it.”

Takeoff and landing for a commercial aircraft are considered the times when the likelihood for a disastrous event is highest, necessitating procedures that assumed the worst would happen. The pilot held a firm grip on his stick, the co-pilot “backing up” the captain, ready to take over in the unlikely event that a medical problem, such as a heart attack, should strike him at a critical moment.

The worst was also planned for when considering mechanical performance. Everything assumed that the most important part of the aircraft would fail at the most crucial time during takeoff or landing. Where takeoff was concerned, the engines were the major system. Their performance, or lack of it, was the basis for calculating several variable airspeed ‘barriers’ that aided a pilot when deciding whether to go ahead with or abort a takeoff. V-l was the speed at which the decision to proceed had to be made and the last point at which a takeoff could be aborted by reversing the engines and applying full braking power. Beyond V-l an abort would surely end up in a fiery slide past the runway’s end. V-R indicated the speed at which the aircraft would be generating sufficient lift for a safe takeoff and climb-out, allowing the pilots to nose up — or rotate — the aircraft.

There was a gentle forward push on the back of the captain’s right hand as he and Buzz advanced the numbers one and four engine throttle levers. The Maiden lurched up and forward, coming back down on the nose gear shocks with a pronounced bounce. Turbine compression increased in the two outboards, moving the aircraft slowly onto the taxiway, where the captain turned her to the right, lining up on the yellow center line. The ground speed crawled upward.

“Jesus, Bart. We should be rolling easy at this thrust-to-weight.”

They were an eighth of the way to the threshold area, and rolling way too slowly. Captain Hendrickson moved his aircraft to the left side of the taxiway, then to the extreme right, testing the feel of the Maiden. She was heavy. Sluggish was a good word, but not completely descriptive. The bird was…unbalanced, almost like she wanted to do a wheel stand. He touched the throttles forward a bit, then backed off, getting the same forward rise and lurch as before. Buzz looked over to him, and they both knew. Their aircraft was too heavy, and misloaded. Her center of gravity had been altered, by how much they would find out once airborne — if they got that far.

“We’re damn heavy,” Buzz said. “I didn’t figure on this. Man, we feel real heavy.”

“I know.” The captain brought her back to center. “She’s mushy on the ground, like we’re steering with a flat nose wheel.”

Buzz checked the overhead panels for any reds: There were none. The weight of the new cargo was going to present a big enough problem without having to worry about any minor system glitches. And just what was the weight? He wanted to ask — politely deferent, if necessary — but remembered the wrath of the hijacker. Buzz would love to get a crack at him, just a chance to snap his shit-brown neck, but not at the risk of another passenger’s death. Not him. The handiwork was readily apparent on the wing, and he tried not to think about what was going to happen to the body when the aircraft accelerated down the runway.

The nose of the big Boeing came sharply left at the end of the taxiway, and a hundred yards farther came left again onto the runway. Brakes were applied and the throttles brought back to hold the Maiden steady. The strip before them was too short for their weight. Both pilots knew it. They would never leave pavement.

“We’re beyond spec,” Buzz pointed out, referring to the hot, thin air of the midday desert that would further complicate a liftoff. “What do you think?”

The captain analyzed the question. Conventional approaches could be cast aside for now. After all, the only certainty was that they were going to dig a long trench in the desert sand at the end of the ten-thousand-foot runway. He figured they would need at least twelve thousand feet to get enough speed up. Unless…

“Buzz, we need speed, right?”

“Yeah,” he answered quizzically

It was a radical idea for a non afterburning jet, possibly ludicrous when applied to the 747. “We’re going to roll with the flaps retracted, smooth-skinned. That’ll give us speed.”

“But lift? We can’t rotate without flaps.”

The captain pointed to the console. “Look, you call out speed, like usual. Just add ten knots to rotation. We’ll use up a hell of a lot of runway, I know, but we’ll be fast enough. At V-R you hit the flaps — ten degrees.”

“That can rip the wings off.” But it might work. Buzz smiled at the runway and sighed a dry breath. In a way the thought excited him. “Just like flying a Harrier off a jump ramp.”

They would trade assured lift for speed, and throw lift in at the last moment, a risky move that very well could bring the first officer’s worry to reality. No one knew if the wings could take the stress, or even if the flaps would extend under the force created by the forward motion. Commercial aircraft were not designed for this.

“You ready?”

Buzz nodded.

“We firewall them on my mark.”

“Okay.”

Hendrickson stretched his hand around the four levers, arching his fingers to touch each of the plastic caps. His palm tensed. “Now!”

They pushed the throttles forward as quickly as the built-in resistance would allow. The cockpit rose up as before and settled down as the aircraft began moving.

Hadad heard the words from his seat behind the pilots, but he was not concerned. Everything had been prepared for. All the calculations were long since made. The plane would fly. The added load could be handled easily by the giant jet — his knowledgeable comrades had assured him of this. It would be so.

The jet blast from the Maiden’s four engines sent rocks and other debris flying from the runway and its edges as the aircraft gained speed.

“Come on…” The captain watched the airspeed increase slowly — too slowly.

Buzz pushed on the captain’s hand, holding the throttles full open. The turbines were sucking fuel from the integral wing tanks in huge gulps as they approached 100 percent capacity, a measure of performance they would surpass. Operating beyond full capacity was possible, but not recommended for any period of time. “It’s gonna be close,” he said, louder than he realized. The aircraft passed the halfway point on the runway.

Those who flew did so with an instinctive ability to sense performance beyond what the mechanical indicators told them. For some it was a feeling in the gut, literally, one that told them whether the aircraft was going too slow or fast, or if some meteorological condition was affecting it. Captain Hendrickson felt the Maiden’s bulk beneath. It moved slowly, but there was increasing acceleration.

“V-one,” Buzz called out. The 747 was already beyond the halfway marker by a thousand feet.

“We go,” the captain decided, though that had been fated. He held the throttles forward.

Buzz kept his eyes on the rising speed indicator, not the ever-shortening slab of pavement which was now three quarters gone. The electronic needle crept past the first calculated V-R speed…less than ten knots to go.

A uneasy expression covered Michael’s face. He gripped Sandy’s arm with one hand, and the armrest with the other. Something felt wrong. The speed was too high. His stomach told him so. His hand squeezed, feeling his wife’s soft flesh.

Silently, he willed the jet to fly.

Captain Hendrickson was invoking the same prayer when his first officer shouted, “V-R!”

“Rotate.” Hendrickson pulled the stick back in a smooth motion while Buzz brought the flaps down.

The Clipper Atlantic Maiden’s nose rose in response to the downward pressure on the elevators, which were located on the trailing edge of the horizontal stabilizers at the jet’s rear. The most obvious motion, though, was the vertical jump that accompanied the lowering of the flaps. Buzz’s body bent slightly forward from the force of the upward surge.

“Shit!”

“We’re up!” the captain exclaimed.

Buzz retracted the gear without prompting. The aircraft responded to the reduced drag with more speed. The climb-out was on a gentle slope — no jump into the sky for noise abatement reasons. Instead, the Maiden skimmed above the glistening desert floor at two hundred knots, gaining speed and altitude at a mild, but acceptable rate.

“My stick,” the captain announced as they passed through fifteen hundred feet. Buzz released his soft backing grip and checked the displays thoroughly.

“Number three’s acting up.”

“Like usual.”

“It’s hot.” Buzz took out the performance manual. “Down four percent — no, five percent.”

“We’ll back all of them off twenty percent when we pass eight thousand.”

“Gotcha,” Buzz agreed.

They continued to take the jet up and over the water, oblivious to Hadad, who stood from his seat and now crouched behind them, looking through the thick windshield. He would rather look behind, but what was the point. Several months ago he had left his home, and now he was leaving without seeing his friend. The colonel had worked tirelessly to bring the mission, once just a concept, to reality, and the effort had weakened him further. Hadad would pray for him.

Now it was time for instructions. “Fly two-seven-oh, at thirty thousand.”

Neither pilot responded verbally to the command — they simply acted upon it, banking the Maiden to the left in a smooth, fluid turn. The captain knew he had his hands full with the unbalanced load. Trim would be a problem, especially later as fuel was burned and the balance further changed.

They both concentrated on their flying, trying to keep thoughts of how they had left a passenger behind in the dark, quiet recesses of their minds. It was horrific. Benghazi was behind them, and what was ahead neither knew.

“Set reduced thrust.”

Buzz followed the instructions, selecting reduced climb thrust on the Thrust Control Panel.

“At reduced thrust,” Buzz announced. He noted the altitude. “Passing eight-five-hundred.”

“Spell me?” the captain requested.

“Sure.” Buzz gripped his column. “My stick.”

“Slow and easy climb. The trim is lousy,” Hendrickson said unenthusiastically.

The Maiden rose into the sky, finding the cool, thin air that made its ascent slow. It would be a full thirty-five minutes to thirty thousand feet.

The captain checked the instruments, trying to occupy his consciousness. Everything was as it should be, save number three. The mere fact that the wings were still attached could be construed as a positive. But he cared little about the technicalities at the moment. They were small, infinitesimal concerns that would not be able to hold his attention. His thoughts were elsewhere, back at Benina, somewhere along the runway.

The checkpoint was gone.

Muhadesh slowed his Range Rover, then stopped. Where the tank had been was now only a wide circle of disturbed hard sand and track marks onto the road. They had gone, by the way of the main road from the direction of the tracks. He put it back in gear and continued on.

Two minutes later he again stopped, this time at a guard shack on the north side of Benina’s control tower, and was promptly waved through on recognition by the two smiling guards. Muhadesh was well known to the garrison at Benina, whose company and conversation he preferred to the ideologues back at the camp. These soldiers were from the rabble: common people, not very sophisticated, most from the arid regions far from the city. They were like him, doing their duty. Some did it reluctantly, some willingly. Few of them understood the significance of their government’s attitude toward the Western world, or to their Arab neighbor states. In conversation with them, topics such as goats, and old people, and the joy of swimming in the waters of the Mediterranean were common. It was refreshing, a welcome and too seldom respite from everyday happenings.

Muhadesh brought the vehicle around to the front of the tower, the bottom floor of which was the airport garrison’s command post. The implied formality of the term held little stock here. A lone lieutenant, his shirt open to the waist, dozed with his feet up while an old metal fan high on the wall struggled uselessly to cool the room.

The creak of the tattered screen door awakened the disheveled junior officer.

“Captain Algar!” The lieutenant sat up, struggling against the liberal reclining springs of the old wooden chair. He noticed the captain’s lowered stare and began buttoning his tunic.

“Good morning, Lieutenant. Or is it afternoon? I thought you might be waking from a good night’s sleep.” Muhadesh strode from one side of the CP to the other, his hands behind his back, eyeing the lieutenant alternately as he feigned a cursory inspection. “Is this your usual dress at your post?”

“No,” came the answer, and with it the second from the top button.

The look was the next interrogative.

“It has been a long night, sir.” He fingered some papers on the desk, as if they were some magic explanation. “A very long night. And today’s heat…as always, it takes your strength.”

“Mmm.” Muhadesh picked up a heavy paperweight, tossing it up over and over. “Lieutenant…”

“Hafez.”

“Lieutenant Hafez, where is Captain Ibrahim Sadr?”

“Sadr?” He looked to the piles of work.

A heavy, flat hand came down on a stack of files. “I am asking you…not your unfinished work. Now, again, where is Captain Sadr?”

“Sir, he left when the American plane departed.”

“Where?”

A swallow, justified by fear of the captain’s legendary, if seldom exhibited wrath, preceded the reply from the wide-eyed officer. “I do not know. He…he did not say.”

Eyes bored into the junior officer. You tell the truth. “Did he have anything with him? A duffel, possibly?”

The lieutenant shook his head, which was enough of an answer. Muhadesh had a good idea what it meant Sadr would not have gone directly back to Tripoli, not the prissy captain who was the “model” of a perfect officer. It was a joke, though one not funny in the least.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Muhadesh left the CP without further discussion and departed the airport by the way he came, waving at the guards as he passed through the gate.

The drive to the camp would be short. He would go there first, and a bit later into Benghazi. Muhadesh would have preferred that it be a clean, simple job. If Sadr had been here, it might have taken less time. He could have lured the prima dona into the open spaces outside of the airport, where things would be less conspicuous. As it was, that was not to be. He would venture into the city and punctuate his departure, making life in his homeland impossible.

And it would be worthwhile. He thought for a moment as he drove. Yes, it would be, but for whom?

Was this a normal reaction? the president wondered. He was angrier than he had ever been, at the hijackers, the Libyans, even at himself, though that was caused by the frustration and helplessness he felt. Vengeance was on his mind, and he knew that wasn’t right.

“Has there been any success contacting the Libyans?”

Bud shook his head.

“Sir, even their UN ambassador can’t get through,” Gonzales added.

The president scoffed at that. “He’s falling in line.”

“She, sir,” the COS corrected him.

Bud felt underdressed. The president and chief of staff were dressed somberly for the viewing at eleven.

“What about the body?”

“Satellite evidence indicates it’s still on the runway,” Bud answered. “We’ll work with the Red Cross to have it returned, as soon as the Libyans open up.”

In an hour and a half he would be walking past the body of the slain president, its casket closed for obvious reasons. He would offer a silent prayer for the man, but what could he do for the other murdered American? As president he was expected to provide leadership and answers for the American people. What would he tell them? What could possibly be done to end this madness of terror against innocents? He didn’t know, but he would have to. The public would want a solution. Lip service and hollow offerings, as had been the norm in the past, would not suffice. That was not his way. Whatever was decided would have to satisfy his sense of right as well as that of the people, and it would have to be effective.

“And some of our speculation appears to have been at least close to the mark,” Bud said. “I want to show you the last part again.” He reversed the recording for only a few seconds. “Now here we see the aircraft start its takeoff roll. It’s going awfully slow — this is actual time, no compression or slow mo — and here”—Bud pointed to the screen with his pen, leaning in—“we have four good exhausts from the engines, so it appears to be very heavy. Moderately overweight at the least. She’s passing the halfway point here.”

They had watched the images only a few minutes earlier. The scene still caused the president to grimace. The small object on the right wing slid backward and off. It disappeared out of frame as the aircraft continued on.

“And now…” Bud touched the remote, freezing the picture. “This is where they lift off. See, the shadow is changing horizontally under and to the side of the nose.” He let the image progress, then froze it again. “And the main gear. That’s only about two hundred feet from sand.”

“That’s one hell of a pilot,” the president commented.

The COS opened his folio. “His name is Bart Hendrickson. He flew big Air Force stuff. Eight years total in uniform. He’s been with the airline for about thirty years. Their home office says he’s about as experienced as one can get. His co-pilot is a former Marine fighter pilot, Adam Elkins.”

“The Agency is working on some weight estimates,” Bud said.

“But…” The president urged a continuance.

“But so far it only adds weight to the worst-case scenario.”

Gonzales’s folio slapped shut. “Sir, these developments are serious. The rules have changed.”

“Ellis, please.” The president stood and took a few steps, then turned back to face his aides.

“What Ellis means, sir, is that the tide of events has turned. In Britain the SAS would be called in — formally. That’s the way the British do it. There is no second chance for the terrorists once they’ve shed blood. Negotiations are used only to buy time and put the situation in the best possible position for action. We have now reached that point and the only decision we should have to make is which party is the culprit. And, what will be the best response to the situation.”

He felt old, and if the president could have seen his own face with its pursing lips, he would be aghast at the gesture. “I agree. Recommendations?”

“Sir, we put Delta in a go mode and put them in the air.”

The COS nodded agreement.

“To where, Bud?”

“That aircraft is going to have to set down somewhere. We can have Delta there, either ahead of them or right behind. No matter where that may be, all Delta has to do is shadow them until they show their hand. In-flight refueling can keep them up as long as we need.”

“It’s at least a lot more than we’re doing now,” Gonzales added.

The president gestured a go. “Make it happen, Bud. Any final authorization comes from me.”

“Understood.”

“Does Granger have the contingency plans ready?”

“I’ve looked over the preliminary report,” Bud answered. “He’s going to present a full, detailed run through today.”

“Good. Bud, I need your review ASAP. I’ll be back from the viewing about twelve-thirty.”

“Yes, sir.” Bud knew that ASAP did not mean whenever you can get to it — it meant now.

“I’m sorry you can’t attend,” the president said apologetically. Bud had admired the late president greatly. But…

“So am I, Mr. President.”

The Frisbee-shaped dome above the E3 AWACS rotated continuously. Inside, a crew considerably larger than that of Hammer Two-Seven monitored the progress of the hijacked jet and the pair of swept-wing F-14s from the Vinson on its tail. They had arrived on station just east of Gibraltar a few moments earlier and, after clearing the airspace around them, had begun tracking Flight 422 as it headed west.

“Target, course change,” the chief radar operator announced.

The commander swiveled his chair, stood, and walked down three consoles. He plugged his headset into the auxiliary jack. “Where’s he going, Lieutenant?”

“Two-six-oh true, sir. Right for the Strait.”

“And us. He’s angels three-zero, huh?” the green-suited commander asked.

“Yes, sir.”

A flip of the intercom selector switch connected him to the cockpit. “Pilot, take us up. We’ve got a target, angels three-zero, range one hundred, and he’s coming straight on at three hundred plus. Clear us. Copy?” After the acknowledgment he switched back to cabin intercom.

“Holding two-six-oh true, sir.”

“Yep. Com, get those Navy jocks back to their boat. That bird belongs to Air Force now.”

“Roger that.” The radar operator smiled.

Revolution Avenue was a row of ivory-colored low-rise buildings in the eastern section of Benghazi. They were exclusive buildings, all apartments that the ‘average’ Libyan could never hope to live in, or enter. Government officials and ranking military officers were the privileged few who could secure an apartment there, for use as a primary residence or a second ‘home.’

Muhadesh entered the center tower at Number 7 through the simply landscaped courtyard which continued into the structure as an atrium. The decor was sparse but attractive, something unusual in a country where niceties were often associated with the wickedness of the West, and strange when the living conditions of its people were considered. He didn’t consider himself to be a socially conscious person, but it did bother him. What meager resources his country had were supposed to provide as good a life as possible for the people. Muhadesh knew better, having seen where the money went.

The sounds of the afternoon traffic faded with the closing of the elevator doors, replaced by the hum and friction sounds as he was lifted to the fourth floor. Captain Ibrahim Sadr’s apartment was halfway down the magenta-carpeted hall that ran straight from the elevator. Muhadesh could see the entire corridor from the elevator. On his left were the odd-numbered rooms: 401, 403, 405, 407…and 409, the one he wanted. He approached the door, removing the pistol from inside his coat and placing it in his back waistband. His toughened hand knocked for thirty seconds before the door opened fully.

Captain Sadr, wearing a white bathrobe, stood framed by the doorway. His bushy black mustache and hair showed evidence of sleep, or…

Of course, Muhadesh thought. Slime, through and through.

“Captain Ibrahim Sadr?” Muhadesh knew it was, but needed to size up his quarry. He put both hands on his hips, bringing the right one closer to the Beretta.

“Yes. Who are you?” Sadr asked impatiently, leaning on the open door and obviously annoyed at the intrusion.

“Captain Muhadesh Algar — Third Training Battalion. May I speak to you privately?” Both hands were now behind his back at an ‘at rest’ stance, with the right hand gripping the compact pistol.

Sadr looked at Muhadesh incredulously. “I am occupied, idi—”

The last word froze in his throat. Muhadesh brought the gun up from his waistband and pointed it at Sadr’s center of mass. Simultaneously, his left hand gathered at the captain’s loose robe collar, pushing him inside as he quietly ordered silence. With a kick of his foot the door closed behind.

“Wha—”

The silencer touched Sadr’s lips. It convinced him.

Muhadesh removed an altered pair of handcuffs from his jacket. They looked strangely like leg irons, less the chain, these being connected by a length of steel cable.

“Turn around,” Muhadesh whispered. Sadr turned and reflexively brought his hands behind his back, aware of what was happening now. He was pushed firmly against the wall and cuffed. The chromed steel was cold, but worse, it was tight — very tight. Muhadesh spun him roughly to his right to face the hall. It led to an open area, a gathering room, and to another hall on the right.

“Where is she?”

Sadr gulped his spit. “The bedroom.”

Muhadesh followed the directional shake of the head down the hall to the right, with his prisoner ahead. The three doors at the end were all closed.

“Which one?”

“Ibrahim.” The distinctly female voice, sounding perturbed at the apparent interruption of activities, pierced the door on the right.

“Stay quiet, my friend.” Muhadesh put Sadr to his front and opened the door quickly with his gun hand. Both men stepped into the Spartan bedroom, surprising the pretty woman who sat upright against the headboard. Her upper body was exposed to the intruder. She was not a very young woman, but extremely beautiful, which surprised Muhadesh. He had pegged Sadr as one who would like the fresh, youthful girls, as did he. It was not a proud self-admission.

“Ibrahim!” Her voice was pleading now. Reflexively she brought her hands up to cover her ample breasts, then set them back on the sheet at either side, clutching the white linen into bunches. She looked terrified. Sadr saw her eyes widen and wondered why. He couldn’t see the slender silenced pistol come up below his right elbow, but he did hear a pair of muffled pops. Muhadesh put two hollow-point rounds into her head, one entering dead center on her forehead and the other just below the left eye. Her head was slammed back against the wooden headboard with a fleshy crack. Before it flopped forward a small fountain of blood spurted onto her face, torso, and the sheets, turning them a dark red. Death made the muscles contract, become rigid, then relax, causing the body to fall sideways onto the pillows.

“What…”

“Quiet, my friend.” Muhadesh tugged the captain back into the hall and led him from behind into the gathering room. There was a prayer mat near the window, a sight that quietly angered the onetime doctor of death. For all his doubts and transgressions, he was devout in his beliefs, applying the teachings of the Koran to himself as much as possible. It disturbed him that he was not pure in his following of Islam, but it bothered him more that this prima donna was going to commit adultery and then offer himself up for forgiveness and salvation during afternoon prayers.

“On your stomach,” Muhadesh commanded. Sadr fell on his front with unwanted help from his captor.

“What do you want?” Sadr turned his head from side to side, trying to see his tormentor. A boot was pressed on the small of his back, the cable between the cuffs underfoot.

“Captain Sadr, you will tell me what I require, or you will die most unpleasantly. Do you understand?”

“You will not succeed, Algar. Aaah!”

The knee pressed on the back of the struggling physicist, causing a sharp pain that was centered just above his buttocks. It was only a hint of what was to come. Muhadesh pulled the cable up to Sadr’s head, twisting it halfway before looping it over and around his neck until both hands were pulled high up on the back, each nearly touching the opposite shoulder blade. There was a painful grunt, then a raspy groaning as the cable was pulled taut across Sadr’s throat below the notch of his Adam’s apple.

“Cahhh! Cahhh!” He couldn’t scream with any force, and struggling to keep his hands high enough to relax the pull was useless; the human body’s muscles didn’t work to that extent. The strangle hold continued.

Muhadesh produced another set of restraints, similar to the first but with longer cables and larger cuffs. He locked one around one ankle, looped the cable over that connecting the hands, and clicked the other one around the other ankle.

Sadr’s feet were pulled up to his butt by the connection. The resulting pull made the already deadly choking all the more painful and frightening.

“Now, Captain Sadr, enjoy your predicament for a moment before I come to the purpose of my visit.” He watched his captive struggle to slacken the cable that was starving his lungs of oxygen. The heavy infantry boot kept him planted solidly facedown on the carpet. Soon his chest would feel the lire of asphyxiation, but first…

“Aagh. Cahh.” The guttural gasping was wet and weak, and was followed by a strained hissing as Muhadesh released the tension pulling the wrist cuffs toward the head.

“The air is sweet, eh? Yes, yes. You are aware of my background, surely, and you must know that simply allowing you to strangle yourself would just not do. I have better ways, much better ways. But,” Muhadesh said, kneeling down on the floor and putting his face close to the carpeting, “we do not have to go that route. You can tell me what I require, and…you go free.”

The sweat beaded down from Sadr’s forehead into his eyes. He tried to blink it away, unsuccessfully, and salty drops began to sting his bulging eyes.

“Now, very simply, I will ask you — what did you supervise the loading of onto the American plane?”

“Traitor!”

The raspy words of contempt and accusation elicited no emotional response.

“What was it that was loaded?”

Sadr’s silence was met with a renewal of the strangling wire’s tightening. As he once again fought to breathe, Muhadesh removed a small switchblade from his back pocket, clicking its three-inch double-edge blade open. He pushed the sharp point into the soft flesh and muscle where the captain’s right leg joined his buttock. There was an attempted scream through the constricted throat, sounding more like a great rumbling caught high in his chest. Sadr’s squirming only added to the pain of the knife, which Muhadesh continually applied pressure to.

The blade was suddenly withdrawn and wiped on the robe. The pressure of the cable was also relieved once again.

“Ah!.. No… Ah…”

“Now, my friend, you will answer the question. If you resist again, you will die in pain.”

Muhadesh looked over the prostrate captain. The Darling of Tajoura was helpless, a victim of his own weakness. He had seen Sadr in his element while training a group of Iranian Revolutionary Guards for a possible suicide attack on the Israeli Dimona research reactor. Arrogant. Ruthless with his subordinates. A precise, calculating leader, who tolerated no lapses in performance, even in himself. He made no mistakes, except, as Muhadesh now knew, in his personal life.

When he had received the strange-looking photograph in a fax he had recognized it instantly. The profile, even with the cartoonlike enhancement, was unmistakably Captain Ibrahim Sadr. It was amazing, the technological wizardry of the Americans. Where it came from he could only guess.

“Once more, Captain, you know the question.”

A click of the knife blade was all that was needed. Captain Sadr was not a hardened soldier trained in the methods of resistance. His rank was ceremonial, bestowed upon him years earlier by a grateful Colonel Qaddafi, who wanted the European-educated physicist bound by the honor of the Libyan Army uniform. Sadr enjoyed the recognition and privileges that came with the smart-looking dress greens, but that was where the charade of honor ended. Discipline and a stomach for resistance did not come with the trousers and tunic. He could not bear the thought of more pain, or the agony of oxygen deprivation. Muhadesh listened carefully for the five minutes it took his source to explain the particulars. He asked a few questions, which were promptly answered. There were some things he would need to take note of, including diagramming a device from the description. That could be sketched in his pocket notebook once he left. First…

Ibrahim Sadr felt the cable tighten again just as he exhaled. He wished he had inhaled first, something that made the other short stretches without air just bearable, but soon he realized that it did not matter. It did not abate this time. There was no saving breath to quench his lungs’ desire. His usefulness had been exhausted. Fighting would do no good. He simply closed his eyes, his last conscious, voluntary act.

The body twitched and shook involuntarily as the captain’s dying brain lost control of its host. A few minutes later the alimentary canal opened, releasing bodily refuse and fluids. It was a most unpleasant smell that followed, though it did not bother Muhadesh — he was already in the courtyard four floors below, walking casually to his vehicle. He was calm, truly. The information-gathering part of his mission was done. The rest would be easy. Confidence came with the rank.

“A very thoroughly thought-out operation,” Bud commented as the briefing ended. “Thank you.”

The Joint Chiefs director of Operations laid the pointer on the map wall ledge before leaving. His briefing had been comprehensive and intelligent. Concentrated air strikes from B-52s and Navy Intruders, with overwhelming air cover, would decimate the Libyan military. Marines choppered into the drilling and processing sites would destroy the colonel’s petroleum industry for years to come. There was no doubt in Bud’s mind that the plan could accomplish what it set out to.

“General, would you walk me out to the pad?”

“Certainly,” Granger answered.

The Blackhawk’s rotors were still. A light rain was falling, keeping the two men under the canopy at building’s edge.

“I’m going back to the White House to get ready,” Bud said, pulling his overcoat collar up. “This weather is weird.”

“Getting colder — in September, yet.” Granger put his cap on. “So, is it a go?”

He couldn’t authorize a strike and he didn’t even know if he would recommend carrying it out. “Only the president can do that.”

“You can get the ball rolling.”

Granger sounded impatient to Bud. “General, I asked you out here to ask you a question — will this operation have the desired effect? Honestly.”

“For Christ’s sake, Bud… What do you take me for? Do you think I’d put my stamp on a plan that wouldn’t work?”

Bud held a hand up, palm toward the general. “Let me rephrase that. Is the effect that is anticipated the one that will really do the most damage?”

The general understood the line now. What would be most effective? “Bud…we can’t create the perfect solution in an imperfect world. It just doesn’t happen that way. The people we’re trying to stop are criminals, plain and simple, and they’ve created their own safe haven where the only way to get them is with an operation like this. I know what you mean, Bud. It is frustrating, but what do you propose we do…nothing? Where would that get us?”

A whine started low and grew louder, rising steadily in volume from the near UH-60 as the rotors started to spin.

“It’s the same as before: We hit them, they react. Back and forth. Back and forth.”

“The eighty-six strike put a crimp in their style,” Granger pointed out.

“Really?” Bud asked, semi-cynically. “Look where we are now. Remember when the Soviets had some diplomats kidnapped in Lebanon some years back? Right around the time we were losing people left and right there. Do you know what they did — unofficially? They let a four-man Spetsnaz team loose with carte blanche. Those responsible for the abductions soon found some of their family members missing, and a few showed up on the doorsteps in pieces. One guy’s uncle had his balls snipped off and shoved in his mouth before they shipped his body home. Pretty, huh?”

The general’s face was covered with a sour expression. “Thanks for the graphics. Are you proposing we do the same? An eye for an eye, before we lose our eye? Let me tell you, you’re sounding awful contradictory considering your lack of enthusiasm for this operation.”

“I am not proposing anything. But I think we could learn something from the Soviet action: They had no more problems in Beirut.”

Granger turned to the helicopter, and then away. Its rotors were turning at speed now, kicking up spray off the wet ground. “Well, I wish things were that simple for us, but they’re not. We’re the Great Satan, remember?”

The NSA laughed. “We always get the best titles.”

“So what do we do?”

“Knowing my feelings, what do you recommend?” Bud asked.

“Let’s get the assets in place and ready.”

One step closer, Bud thought. “All right. Have the 52s ready to launch. I’ll notify the president.” He tossed a polite salute before heading for the helo.

A moment later the Blackhawk jumped skyward and circled to the left, heading back to the White House. Bud looked at his watch. They would soon be paying respects to the slain chief executive. The thought that he was absent bothered him. He had to be at the center of the storm, trying to bring things safely to an end. Really, though, he was an adviser to the chess player who would move the pawns. Some of the moves would be executed soon, which was Delta’s hope. Bud hoped they would get the chance to checkmate the opponent, otherwise any action would seem like vengeance. It might have been that anyway, he realized.

Whatever happened, he would be safe and secure in the nation’s capital. That thought didn’t bother him — it pissed him off.

The AWACS was now west of Gibraltar, following much the same course it had on the way into the Med, loitering slightly above a light weather system that was shrouding the North African coast on the Atlantic side for a thousand miles to the south.

Flight 422 was twenty-nine thousand feet, five thousand below that Sentry tracking it. A pair of F-16 Falcons from Spain stayed ten miles back of the hijacked jet.

“Target is changing course,” the radar controller aboard the AWACS announced. “Coming left.”

“Watch ‘em. Give me a true. Com, let the Falcons know.” The commander sat back. He was a full colonel with thirty years in the service and two wars under his belt. This, however, was an abomination in his eyes. Even wars had rules.

“Target, new course of two-zero-five. I show a slow descent.”

“Cobra flight reports negative five hundred feet per minute,” Com reported.

“Radar, give me a plot.”

“Computing, sir.”

Flight 422 was going somewhere, probably close. For a second the commander thought that it might be going down, but why the turn? No — there was a destination. C’mon, baby, land.

“Cobra flight on track,” Com reported.

“Got it,” the radar controller said. “Sir, target on a track to Tenerife.”

“The Canaries. Com, alert the controllers on Tenerife, and get me a secure channel to the Pentagon.”

Some of the most beautiful paintings ever rendered depicting events and people of early American history adorned the walls of the rotunda, beneath the classically pure Capitol dome. During the country’s infancy, artists saw men and their deeds as subjects that would, and did, convey a sense of the awe felt by all at the birth of a new nation. The scenes were dark, with stem-faced people staring out to the circular room, or off into a distance not in the painting.

There was a portrait of Thomas Jefferson to the right of the entryway. It stared at the president as he walked past.

An honor guard stood at attention near the far side of the roped off area directly under the apex of the great dome. One member of each service made up the five-member guard. Their faces were frozen and emotionless. Even the blinking of their eyes seemed mechanical and precise.

The president and his aides approached the dark mahogany casket. It sat atop a riser draped with a deep red skirt, its lid closed and a single peach-colored rose lying on it. In contrast to the blank faces of the military presence, there was emotion visible on the president’s ashen face. It was not sadness, though he felt that. Nor was it anger. It was reserved puzzlement, not really an appropriate response, but it was his way of reacting. No press was there to capture his expression, so he didn’t mask his feelings. A man was in that box: a man who shortly before had been alive, respected, and loved. But now he was gone. Why?

How many had died? The president pondered that as he stood silently a few inches from the casket. He wanted to touch it, but was that proper? He hadn’t been to a funeral since his dad’s.

A hand touched his elbow. “Sir, it’s time to go.”

The president nodded. His chief of staff was right. He could stand and mourn, reflecting on the tragedy, the brutality, the waste. That would be easy. Or he could try to end it.

“I’m ready,” the president said, ending his unceremonious visit.