Cloudburst

Thirteen THE EXPECTED, THE UNEXPECTED, AND THE NECESSARY

“How much did we get?” Hendrickson asked.

Buzz checked the fuel readout again. Data on the amount of fuel in the tanks was gathered through means much different than those used in a car. Floats in each of the seven fuel tanks were operated using reverse pressure. This negated the effect of minimal sloshing while the aircraft was in motion. Readings from the floats were matched against inflow and outflow meters on each tank, and all the numbers were tracked by a computerized fuel-management system.

“Two-twenty,” the first officer answered. There were 220,000 pounds of jet fuel in the Maiden’s tanks. “I didn’t pump into the outboard extenders.”

“Good,” Hendrickson said. The 656-gallon tanks inside the wings, right at the tips, were dry. That would keep more of the weight forward, since the wings, swept back at thirty-seven degrees, added mass behind the aircraft’s center of gravity. “Is the rest spread around?” he inquired, leaving Buzz to manage the fuel while he preflighted the engines.

“The center is full. The inboards and outboard mains are splitting the rest.” That still left over 130,000 pounds of free space in the tanks. “This load out and the empty seats should help.”

Hendrickson came to the number three instruments right then. With a total weight reduction of 160,000 pounds, the Maiden was lighter than at any point since landing at Benina. But the number three turbofan was showing a marked degradation in performance, down 55 percent, even at idle. “I hope. But we’re going to be dragging this one all the way,” he said, pointing at the dying engine’s indicators.

“What do you think’s with it?” Buzz entered the final fuel numbers in the flight computer, though that would help them little without a given flight path.

“I don’t know. It looked like the compressor two days ago. Now…?” It was more than the compressor, he knew. It might be that, or an engine bearing. Or something else.

“Yeah.”

The captain finished his checks. “She’ll do it.”

“Damn right.”

The captain turned. Hadad was sitting, the glow of the cockpit instruments lighting his face. The eyes, like before, stared ahead. “No tower contact, correct?”

“Correct,” the answer came, without a movement or a blink.

Hendrickson had won a small victory in securing the release of two hundred passengers. It still wasn’t enough to make up for the death of one. Or of another hundred and fifty, he told himself. He had to do it. “Look, we’re probably going to get off the ground all right, with the weight reduction and all. But we had to take on less fuel to get it down even more. Our number three engine is getting worse, even while we’re sitting here. I don’t know what’s going to happen once we get up there.”

The face came out of its trancelike mask. “What are you saying? If it is to release more passengers, the answer is no.”

Hendrickson’s head shook. “No. Let me explain. We had to take on less fuel in order to get the best possible chance at taking off. In doing that we reduced our range. With the engine not performing right, that’s going to increase our fuel consumption and reduce our range further.”

Hadad spoke no words in response, his eyes issuing the challenge.

“If you want to get to Chicago, then we’ve got a problem. With this amount of fuel, our load, and our bum engine, we’ll have to stop and refuel, probably in New York.”

The words did not trigger anger in Hadad. Instead, they elicited frustration, and exasperation. There was little reason for the American to lie. What would it get him? After all, his prime concern was staying alive, and keeping the passengers alive. It was another thing gone awry in the plan. “There will be no additional stop in America.”

“We can’t make it,” the captain repeated. “We have to go a shorter route. Stop somewhere and refuel.”

Why? Hadad’s thumb rubbed circles on the trigger switch. He was tiring. Sleep did not help. The fatigue was deeper than mere physical exhaustion.

If they could not make it, then all was for naught. They had to have enough fuel for three hours of flying once the American coast was reached, for three hours of deception until he could leave his mark upon the Great Satan. If not, the mission would fail. The purpose would be unfulfilled. And… And…

The little face filled his mind. There had to be a way.

“Havana,” Hadad said. “Can you make it there?”

Hendrickson visually checked with Buzz. They weren’t sure how receptive the Cubans would be to their appearance, but then they wouldn’t have much of a say. Just like the Russians had no say with Korean Airlines 007. “It’ll be close, but the skies should be clear. We can do that.”

“Then do it. Get off the ground, now.” Hadad slid back into his seat. In a minute he could remove the increasingly painful vest, and try to rest.

With a concrete destination and flight path — direct — the crew could let the flight computer and auto flight system do most of the flying. Buzz programmed in the destination — Jose Marti Airport.

Hendrickson checked the entered data, as was standard. A simple mistouch of a key could have serious repercussions. Each crewman backed the other…

The captain made his move almost automatically, reaching just above and to the left of the flight control computer and touching the activation button. There was no obvious sign of what he had just done, but Buzz could tell instantly from the crackle of static in his headset.

Hadad was too busy being tired, and lacked enough detailed knowledge to realize that the captain had just activated the hot mike function of the VHF radio.

“Break away! Break away!” The AWACS commander yelled into his boom mike. Two seconds later the converted Boeing 707 banked hard right as the pilot responded to the order and broke away from the KC-10 tanker replenishing the AWACS’s half-empty tanks.

“Read it back, Com,” the commander ordered.

“It’s just chatter, sir. I’ve got it on tape, but the stuff sounds like preflight for their roll.”

“Radar, looks like the bird’s taking off.” The commander checked his own display. “Anything in the way.”

“Negative.”

“Outstanding. Tag anything that gets within twenty miles of that bird on my scope, as well as yours, and give me a holler. Com, what’s going on now?” He could hear it on his headset, but he also had to process other relative information. The com officer was dedicated to listening.

“Sir, he’s got a hot mike. He’s transmitting everything. Jesus H. Christ, that’s one slick-thinking pilot.”

“Cut the commentary. Just give me the important stuff. You’re my filter, remember.”

“She’s up, sir,” Radar reported. “Gaining altitude. Slow climb.”

Okay, baby, where are you goi— “What was that?” the commander asked, interrupting his thought. He heard it, but…

“He said Jose Marti, sir,” Com reported. “Jose Marti is their destination. Just slipped it into the old conversation.”

That smart son of a bitch. “Keep off that frequency, Com. No chances. That guy in the cockpit with them might be able to hear.”

“Yes, sir,” Com responded, a smile evident in his voice.

“We’ll just wait. Get that off to the Pentagon.” It was good news, the commander felt. They had an idea where the aircraft was going, even if it contradicted their earlier announcement.

He also knew that at least one body of men would not be happy to hear the development. Their aircraft was just coming into the inner zone on his scope.

McAffee gave a polite ‘thank you, sir’ to Cadler on the other end of the radio and slammed the headset down on the console in front of the startled communications officer. He stopped at the top of the stairs to the hold, letting the initial anger at the news dissipate. It took a full minute before he proceeded down.

“All right, listen up,” the major shouted. The Starlifter started into a shallow bank to the left. It was obvious to the troops that something wasn’t right — Tenerife was to the south, or right. “Effective now we are in a stand-down. The bird flew.”

The soldiers reacted quietly. This had happened before, but not when they had been so close, in such a big operation.

Anderson looked around, catching Graber’s gaze. It was downcast, but not fixed. “What happened?”

Sean noticed the diagram in Joe’s hand. It had been there for over an hour. “The aircraft took off. We’re heading back.”

“Back? Back to where?” Joe excitedly asked.

“Pope, most likely.”

Joe pulled himself up from the wraparound seat. He worked his way across the tilting cargo deck to McAffee’s position in the darkness of the Humvees’ side. “What the hell is this about going back? What about those things on board?”

The major looked up, almost uninterested in the civilian’s protest. “Unless you think good old Fidel is going to give us landing rights, then we don’t have much choice.”

“What?” Joe didn’t understand.

“Havana, Anderson. They’re going to Havana. They announced it over the radio. Nice, safe Havana, where we can’t touch them.” Blackjack was pissed, and it showed.

Anderson didn’t say anything else. It was just as well, since the major’s eyes said, ‘Back the fuck off’ quite clearly.

Failure had again invaded his existence.

Muhadesh pushed the roller-mounted chair into its space under the desk. It didn’t go in completely, requiring him to push it with more force. The jacketed arm fell into view.

Indar. He, too, had failed. An hour he had been given to restore power, and still they were without it, leaving the camp in the dark and the Americans with only a partial response to their request. Muhadesh bent down with the flashlight and shone it on the body. It was curled into an unnatural ball in the cramped space below the desk. If the diminutive lieutenant was any bigger, he would not have fit. Muhadesh lifted the arm and laid it back against the head. Still there was little blood from the bullet hole in the forehead.

The Beretta was less three bullets. Two used on the whore in the city, and one on the wormy lieutenant. It was still a waste of lead, Muhadesh thought. He tossed the still loaded weapon under the desk. “Take this with you into the hereafter, Indar. It will not help. Satan fears no gun.”

He went to his wall safe. The combination was a date, one he would never forget. The date of al-Dir’s disappearance. Inside the small boxlike vault were some papers, unimportant now as always, and a holstered weapon. It was a Russian-made Makarov pistol, a gift from al-Dir. Muhadesh removed it from its leather holster. The steel was cold and clean, with a slight feel of the penetrating oil he used to regularly clean it. Just enough to keep the rust away. Also in the safe were two clips, both full. He took one, inserted it into the weapon, and chambered a round. There was no need for a second magazine.

He put it back in the holster, clipping that to his belt. Next he checked his pocket; the messages were there, including the last, handwritten one. It was in Italian, his second language. If things went accordingly, someone would get it, and would have it translated in due time. It was best that those who were coming for him didn’t know the entire story immediately.

He grabbed his parka, the one earned as a commando years before. The room was left behind, locked, without a second look or thought. It was now his past.

The military jeep hesitated to start in the cool night, as was usual. It turned over after a minute’s trying. Muhadesh swung it around, heading south from the command center toward the camp’s rear exit road. He followed that to the perimeter gate — actually a hole in the combined barbed wire-chain link fence — and drove through, getting a casual salute from the enlisted man at the rear. Within two minutes the red taillights faded to almost imperceptible dots in the distance as the vehicle headed south, and then east.

It was well past midnight. A new day, Muhadesh thought. A beginning. There was no joy to accompany that thought.

“Our choices are few, gentlemen.” The president was looking for answers. “I don’t like what is happening.” He was mindful of the contingency plan Bud had set in motion.

Bud and Meyerson were silent. Coventry jingled the ice in his glass. The water was long gone. Outside the light was still evident, though it was tempered by the scattered gray in the sky. It cast pretty, uneven shadows on the south lawn, leaving several of the smaller trees shrouded in the shade of the larger ones.

“Can we get them to land somewhere before going on to Chicago?” Ellis asked.

“The point is to not let them in the country,” Bud responded. “If we let them in, we lose.”

“Then what?” Meyerson inquired of the others, not expecting a satisfactory answer.

“Sir,” Coventry began, “who are the culprits in this?”

“Your point?” the president responded.

Coventry sat forward, putting his glass down. Meyerson grabbed a handful of nuts from the tray, dropping a few into his mouth.

“Leverage and diplomacy of the most delicate order,” Coventry replied. “One of the causes of this crisis, one who made it possible, is sitting protected in a villa somewhere outside of Havana. The world might not know that, but we do, and a certain Communist dictator does.”

Bud wasn’t following the path of Coventry’s words. “How does this fit in?”

“Castro is well aware of Vishkov’s presence in his country. It has been a strain on his relations with some elements of his military, our sources tell us.”

“That’s true, sir,” Meyerson confirmed without prompting.

“Which doesn’t endear Vishkov to Castro or his inner circle. The Russian enjoys protection from Ontiveros, as you heard before, and Ontiveros is one of the political dissenters on the Defense Council. His position is even to the right of Castro.”

“So you think we might be able to use this to…what?” the president asked.

“Not this alone. Castro won’t be swayed by just the knowledge that Vishkov is peddling designs, or that one of them incarnate might be on the hijacked jet. But if we can make it clear to him that we consider his sheltering of Vishkov to be a major factor in this, and if we can back that up with some pressure, he might become receptive to our handling of the situation before something horrible happens requiring us to hold him responsible.”

Bud saw another aspect of it. “And if he’s really at odds with this general…”

“Correct,” the secretary of state said, knowing what the NSA’s gist was.

The president saw some hope in the idea, but the logistics would be tricky, and the communication of the message the most difficult part. He had a thought on that. But first… “So we need some pressure? Andrew, can we arrange for some muscle to be in place. Just enough for a credible show.”

“Absolutely. We can rustle up some air power.”

The president put on his business face, the one that Ellis was familiar with. He wore it when a challenge presented itself. It was time for some forceful maneuvering.

“Secretary Meyerson, get word to Delta that the go is back on. They’re going to be going to some unfriendly territory. And Secretary Coventry,” the president added, “get out to Andrews. You’re taking a message to Havana — personally.”

Hadad tried to rest. An hour after takeoff he still twisted in the oversize lounge seat, its back reclined fully to a bedlike position. The vest was next to him. It was part of the cause. His neck was now aching, the soreness having spread from the shoulders.

But the vest was not entirely at fault. He knew that in the months leading up to the mission he had become soft. Technical details of the plan that others could have handled he had delved into. Even when the colonel offered to give him more assistance, he had refused.

Hadad realized now that he had erred. He should have hardened his body to match the determination of his mind and soul. It was worthless observation now.

It could have been perfect, he told himself. But it will still end in the same way. The purpose will be fulfilled.

To hell with the rules.

Buzz dozed, or tried to. Captain Hendrickson had ordered his first officer to get some rest, knowing that they were both becoming physically exhausted. According to every regulation of air safety they should both be awake at the controls, but the rule writers didn’t have this in mind when drafting those words.

The terrorist behind him was the mild one. Hendrickson wasn’t sure why he classified him as that, considering his participation in the murder, but his manner was definitely different from the others.

This one also spoke English, like his leader, requiring the captain to be careful earlier while slipping information in during the surreptitious radio transmissions. Even with the constant guard he and Buzz had been able to mention, in semi-coded phrases, how many terrorists were aboard (“Did those four Indians get let off with the rest?”) and the types of their weapons (“Just do what they say, Buzz. We can’t take on Uzis and pistols”).

And the destination. Havana. The place itself was no blessing, but just knowing their exact destination allowed the flight computer to do most of the flying. Hendrickson wasn’t even touching the controls. Instead he occupied himself minding the readouts and watching the weather radar. Everything was clear as far out as the electronic eyes could see.

Buzz grunted, drawing a look from the captain and the terrorist. Hendrickson glanced back, and it was the terrorist’s gaze that broke. Interesting.

The captain saw his first officer settle down. A dream, he hoped. That would mean that sleep was possible.

He took in and let out a full breath, straightening himself in the seat. The hot mike picked up the sound, which Hendrikson heard through his headset. All that someone on the other end would hear was air rushing past the boom mike. But why wasn’t anyone answering? Someone had to be able to hear. If they would just answer, he could tell them more, maybe in a twenty-questions format.

Forget it. The thought frustrated him. At least he was getting something out. And Buzz was sleeping. With luck he could nap for hours, leaving him fresh to take over for the captain.

But luck was not theirs. The warbling tone in the cockpit confirmed that. Buzz awoke instantly.

“Number three, Buzz!”

“Damn!” The first officer gave the performance indicators a quick check, which told him all that was needed. “Down to fifteen percent. Shit! Shit! Fluid loss. We’re losing the oil in it. Goddamn it, we’re gonna lose the whole thing!”

“I know,” Hendrickson said as he took control of the aircraft from the computers. “Has to be a bearing failure. Look there — the temp is way up. Shut it down! Shut it down!” There was urgency in the captain’s voice. With no air bleeding from the compressor on the engine, hot air was building up within the turbine. In seconds the leaking lubricants would flash off and ignite, probably causing an explosion. The Atlantic was a long way down.

“Roger.” Buzz cut fuel and power to the engine, which now hung uselessly beneath the starboard wing, causing increased drag. The aircraft reacted to the aerodynamic change by banking to the right. The pilots corrected the upset in attitude with left rudder trim and a reduction in power to the number two engine and an increase in number four.

The door swung open. Hadad entered to find Abu nervously pointing his Uzi at the pilots’ backs. His entry was not noticed, nor was Abu’s ordered departure.

“What is happening?” Hadad inquired, hiding his worry. He sounded unconcerned.

“We lost our bad engine,” Buzz said. “Any other brilliant questions?”

Hadad ignored the defiance. Warning and convincing actions were no longer necessary. An aircraft could easily fly without one engine, he knew. The pilots seemed concerned, though he was confident. He stepped back and sat down.

“We’re off auto for the duration,” the captain said. The aircraft, sluggish already, would now require even more minute directional and altitude adjustments to remain stable and on course. It would be a constant battle. “My stick.”

“Roger that. Down to three-nine-zero knots.”

“Let’s bring her nose up.” Hendrickson made an adjustment to the throttles. “A little more power.”

“Up she goes.” Buzz inched the column back with the captain. The Maiden’s nose responded, coming up fractionally. “Looks good. We’re steady at twenty-nine thousand, Bart. Speed down to three-seven-zero and holding.”

Hendrickson’s eyes swept the panel again, a long breath of relief again amplified in his headset as before. What if… “Good. Let’s see if she’ll hold it. Negative flight deck audio.”

Buzz caught it instantly, holding his breath while they waited for the terrorist to respond to the message the captain had slipped in. He didn’t.

Anyone monitoring the frequency would now be aware that the pilots were the only ones privy to communication from the outside. Transmissions would be heard in their headsets, and not on the cockpit speaker.

“She’s holding,” Buzz reported, turning to the captain. The corner of his mouth twitched with mischievous glee.

The Maiden was responding, her dead engine now compensated for. Now, they flew, and waited…and listened.

“Four-Two-Two, do you copy?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Buzz, is our fuel okay?” the captain asked, slipping the answer into the conversation. Buzz also heard the call. All right!

“Looks good,” the first officer answered.

“Four-Two-Two, this is Springer Seven-Three. Confirming that you copy and transmission is secure. Do you confirm?”

“Roger that, Buzz.”

“Four-Two-Two, that’s great. We assume you have some unwelcome company with you.”

“Uh-huh. We’re holding good, even with that drag,” Buzz said, trying to keep the words relevant to the situation.

“Understand, Four-Two-Two. We didn’t want to spook your company with a broadcast. Good work. Understand you have a malfunction: Your number three engine is out?”

“Number three is totally down now, Cap. Down for the count. Just spinnin’ in the wind.”

“Good. Watch the temp on the others.”

“Roger,” Buzz said, straining to hold in a smile.

“We copy. Number three engine is out. Stand by on this channel. Call out any changes if you can. We’re with you, Four-Two-Two. Hang in there.”

The silence on the channel was disquieting after the first contact with the outside world in two days, yet they had to be optimistic. There had been contact. Someone was listening. No mention was made of who exactly was contacting the Clipper Atlantic Maiden, but both pilots knew that somewhere in the vicinity a United States Air Force aircraft was watching over them as best it could.

He thought he had heard it all in his long Army career, but no longer. Blackjack sidestepped past the first Humvee and the miscellaneous gear stowed on both sides of it, emerging after the rearmost vehicle. Graber saw him first, noticing the look on the major’s face. Something was up.

Of all the team members, Graber and McAffee were the most in sync, despite the difference in rank. It was a closeness, an understanding, that come from chasing ‘it.’ ‘It’ was death. Knowing that a car or a bus could hit you any day, or wondering if the food you ate was so laced with chemicals that cancer was a probability, that was facing death. Chasing it was throwing yourself at the grim reaper with your teeth clenched tight and your HK hot to fire, its Streamlight beam striking all before it with the light of a coming death. Sean had chased it. So had McAffee.

Years before, in Thailand, Graber had been the second one into a hijacked aircraft, following the Thai commando leader. His job was relatively simple — throw flash-bangs as the Thai commander hit the carpet, then do the same. Two more native commandos, good men trained in the United States for precisely this type of mission, then literally ran over him and their leader, who came up from prone and cleared the front half of the aircraft. Sean brought up the rear.

The exact sequence happened at the same time, one door back on the opposite side, as the doors blew in. McAffee filled out that group. They went aft to secure the back of the airliner.

It was a picture-perfect raid. A success. The satisfaction and experience gained by the two Delta men was invaluable to the team, giving them firsthand experience to draw from. Graber was happy to share it with his peers, as was the major, but it was easier, Sean believed, for him to relate the fear they had experienced. Blackjack might have to lead them into an assault some day, and fear, though useful in many battles, was detrimental in the lightning fury of a takedown. Both, though, understood and accepted the peculiarities and advantages of each other’s place in the team, and they, with unspoken agreement, did not infringe upon that domain.

This was the closeness, born from successfully chasing death, that allowed Captain Sean Graber to connect with his leader, to read his face as he returned from the flight deck of the Starlifter.

The entire team was silent, but not the aircraft. It creaked and moaned, then roared as it began a gentle bank to the left, correcting itself back to straight and level after a turn of only twenty degrees. The engines pushed harder in an obvious move to bring the huge cargo jet up to max speed. There was something going on. They had all been subdued since the stand-down order, but heads came up, looking around to each other, and the eyes of those who were napping opened to join the others.

Blackjack leaned against the port fuselage frame, across and in front of Graber. “The go order is reinstated. We go from Jose Marti,” the major said, still not sure of the authorization himself. “If the Cubans give us a go ahead, then we go.”

Joe Anderson had a hard time fathoming this. A short time ago he was in his sedate, sterile office in Washington. Now, if what he heard was correct, he was going to be part of an American military operation on Cuban soil.

Neither the captain nor his first officer could have seen, heard, or sensed it happening, though neither would have been surprised considering the abuse the flaps had undergone. The event was, as yet, unnoticed in any performance-affecting way.

The massive flaps, used to give the aircraft added lift during takeoff and to slow it when landing, were moved by synchronized hydraulic sliders, activated and controlled by a lever between the pilots. Normally they would be set at the beginning of a takeoff roll and retracted during the climb-out to altitude. But the added weight carried by the Maiden, compounded by the degraded performance of the number three engine, had necessitated their use as a rapid ascent tool, requiring them to be lowered after the aircraft had gained sufficient speed on its takeoff run. It was a radical use of the control surfaces, one not recommended for reasons obvious to any pilot or engineer. The added stresses were liable to cause catastrophic damage: the uncontrollable, instantaneous failure of the flaps, and possibly the wing as a whole.

The flaps and wings, however, were proving to be stronger than could have been hoped for, withstanding the stress of two jump takeoffs. That was not so for the primary inboard hydraulic slider, which bore the brunt of the stress when it was commanded to extend, lowering the flaps under its control. Inside the solid-cast casing a three-inch sliver of metal sheathing, which formed the smooth surface the slider arm made contact with, separated from the rest of the cylinder’s interior. It came loose as the flaps were retracted during climb-out. Pressed between the slider arm and the casing, it slid out of place as the arm pulled back in, causing the casing to deform at its top. No fluid was released, as the base remained sealed and intact, and the rest of the unit was not opened by the defect.

The only effect of the mishap was yet to be felt.