Cloudburst

Twenty CLOSER TO PARADISE

Meyerson was there, as were Bud, Landau, and the president. The secretary of defense sat away from the others, talking via phone to General Granger in the NMCC. He hung up a moment later.

“Granger says the B-52 flights are meeting up with their tankers west of Gibraltar right now.”

“And the rest of the forces?” the president-asked.

“All in position. From your word, they can execute the first strikes in just twenty minutes.”

Bud listened, passively on the exterior, but…

“What about the bombers? How long can they hold before we have to send them in or recall?” The president was a detail man on the military specifics. After hearing his NSA’s recommendations, he had read the entire brief from the CJCOS himself.

“The F-111’s are orbiting as we speak. They can tank once, but after that we’ll have to do something.” Meyerson saw the need for a more definitive answer on the president’s face. “About three hours, sir. The stateside bombers are a bit more tricky. It’s such a large flight that we just can’t manage another tanking of the whole force and still have enough to get them back across the Atlantic.” The European allies didn’t mind a few F-111’s staging from NATO bases — unlike the eighty-six raid — but a hundred and fifty big U.S. bombers would be political dynamite in most of the nations. Everyone, it seemed, was full speed ahead on the demilitarization policies, an economic necessity for them, and most of the world as well. “It’s a little over three hours for them, also. The 52s will have to head for home first.

“It’s all timing, sir. We have to match our resources — especially the in-flight-refueling ones — to our needs really carefully here. To pull something off this soon after the initial go is a tremendous undertaking.”

“I know, Drew. The military deserves a major attaboy on this one. Bud, how long until Delta will need the final word?” He already knew what it would be. What other choice was there? It was the hostages’ only chance.

“Within thirty minutes,” the NSA replied after checking the clock. The time was approaching fast for action, and the time was already here for a very different kind of the same. Bud knew it was time.

“Mr. President, I’d like to toss something out here.”

Landau smiled with one comer of his crotchety mouth. He could tell what was coming. The man’s got balls.

“Go ahead.” The president lowered himself into the single seat at the coffee table’s end.

“There’s no doubt that this is the time for decisions. I think we already know what the one concerning Delta and the hostages will be, barring any unforeseen happenings. What I’m talking about is an entirely different decision. A big one.”

The secretary of defense joined the three others, taking a seat on the couch and filling his empty mug from the tureen of coffee.

“Remember how General Granger described that missile the aircraft is carrying down in the Gulf right now? He said shooting that at a plane was like killing a flea with a sledgehammer. Well, I think we might be doing something very similar in Libya, except that we might be missing the flea — so to speak — all together.”

“You think?”

Shit or get off the pot, Bud thought. He remembered. The president wanted commitment, not conjecture. “I believe this, sir. We should not go ahead with the full-scale strike.’

“For Christ’s sake, why not?” Meyerson challenged.

Bud leaned in. “Look. Think back to the eighty-six raid. Did it work? Obviously not. It’s a damn cycle of act and react. Someone blows up a plane, or hijacks a ship, and what do we do — react to their action. Our policy has been no negotiation with terrorists, and swift retribution when someone is killed. Unfortunately, neither has been practiced faithfully or regularly by past administrations. And the latter, not at all.”

“Explain.” The president was interested.

“Take the Achille Lauro. We were able to apprehend all of the terrorists who carried it out, and the man who planned it — Abu Abbas. Then what happened? Because we vacillated, the Italians let Abbas off scot-free. And the Germans are so damn afraid of retaliation that we can’t get the trigger man they hold, Hamadi, out of their hands for trial. We’re castrated in our effort to deal with these barbarians.”

“So what do you suggest, Bud? That we bomb Rome and Berlin to punish our allies for impeding the judicial process? C’mon. Your logic is going nowhere.” Meyerson exhaled an exasperated breath and finally undid his tie. “We’ve got the force off Qaddafi’s coast to shut down his military and his economy. Two very viable, and very reachable, targets.”

“Sure. And they’re easy. Don’t you see? That’s what I’m getting at. We had this Abbas guy nailed for what he was a hell of a long time before he pulled the Achille Lauro thing, but we just waited. It was easier to react, and to take swipes at a pushover of a country.”

“A major supporter of international terrorism!” Meyerson bellowed.

Bud paused before continuing. “And, nonetheless, a pushover, as I said.”

“What he’s saying, Mr. President, is that we should save the bombs and use just a few bullets.” Landau’s analysis, in its cryptic simplicity, was sufficient to drive the point home.

Bud looked to each of his counterparts, but they were looking at the chief executive.

“Might I remind you, Bud, that what you’re proposing is similar, if not identical, to the events that started this whole mess.” The president’s analysis was not completely right.

“Not correct, sir.” Contradicting any president, even one as young as this, was risky. Bud realized this entirely, and also that he was in the right. “The events that precipitated this situation were planned and executed by men in high places operating outside the bounds of our own law. We can’t say that they abrogated any international agreements since there never has been a comprehensive treaty or convention that dealt with real, hard issues on terrorism. Not one. Only half measures and resolutions of so-called solidarity have been enacted — no, correction: adopted. Enacted implies at least some sort of action, of which there’s been none.

“Our laws, however, do specifically address the matter. Laws were broken, and — Director Landau will back me up on this — their choice of targets and methodology was wrong. Not because it wouldn’t work, or because Qaddafi doesn’t shoulder some of the blame for the state of terrorist activities, but because its impact and results are going to be fruitless. Even detrimental.”

“Herb?” the president asked, seeking an explanation.

“It’s obvious, Mr. President. We knew from the start that Qaddafi’s motivation to undertake this act is vengeance. My predecessors failed to realize that their brilliant plan, however deniable it might have been, had a lag time for full effect. Qaddafi had time to figure it out, and time to set this all up. A more immediate resolution of his activities would have been more appropriate.”

“Assassination in the classical sense.” The president rubbed the furrows on his brow.

Meyerson’s head shook. “There’s a hell of a difference between a flat-out assassination, by gun, knife, poison, or whatever, and a retaliatory strike to punish. We can’t just kill every head of state that supports terrorism. Hell, there would be few Middle East governments left if we’d done that.”

“You missed the full point, Drew,” Bud pointed out. “The method was wrong because it allowed a response. The target was also wrong.”

“I thought you agreed that Qaddafi was culpable?”

“Yes, Mr. President — culpable. But not fully responsible. The reality of any war on terrorism, because it’s an undeclared conflict, is that we can’t take the easy way out and go after the backers. There will always be more where they came from. We’re learning that in spades with the drug cartels now that our policies and interdictions have some meat and are hurting them. The same applies here. We have to go after the idea men and the foot soldiers. We have to send a message that just because you call yourself a freedom fighter, that doesn’t mean you’re immune from retribution. And I emphasize the word retribution. It’s a scary word, one that I’d hope every would-be terrorist would think about.”

“So you’re suggesting that we hit only those terrorists who’ve pulled a trigger?” Meyerson still couldn’t grasp the whole picture. “How the hell are we supposed to identify them if they haven’t done anything? There are a hell of a lot of first timers in this game. Kids, women, old folks — the whole gamut of society. How do you expect our people — whichever ones you’d charge with the responsibility to carry out this policy — how would you expect them to predict who was going to be a terrorist before they actually were?”

Bud had the answer ready. “Guilt by affiliation and profession.”

The president looked perplexed, and the secretary of defense was obviously incredulous.

“Bud. Are you hearing yourself? I mean, listen to what you just said. It goes against our own legal definitions of guilt supposition. Guilt by association is not—”

“Again”—Bud held up his hand—“you didn’t hear me. Not guilt by association — guilt by affiliation. There’s a big difference. If you go around saying that you are affiliated with a known group of murderers, and that you are going to follow their lead and kill Americans because they’re Americans, then by God you better believe that they deserve the label of guilty, long before they get behind the trigger.

“It’s just a more defined form of what we are ready to do with our fleet and our bombers. Ninety percent of those freedom fighters in the targeted training camps have never fired a shot at an American, much less even looked at one. But we’re still going to blast them to their maker, am I right? Well, if that’s not guilt by affiliation and profession, then I don’t know what is.”

The ending of Bud’s soliloquy hit home. It was precisely what they had been planning to do, only it was sure to stir further resentment elsewhere in the Middle East. And would it send a message other than that America had the biggest guns in town? It rang back to Teddy Roosevelt’s speak softly and carry a big stick. The stick was no question, but the words were thunderous.

“So you think we should forgo the strike and concentrate on quieter means?”

“Within the law, Mr. President. Following the guidelines for covert action.”

“There are still laws against what you are proposing,” Meyerson commented. The wind seemed to be out of his opposition.

“Again, not entirely. There are laws that allow personnel of government agencies to use necessary force to protect civilian lives. You can look it up. I have.”

Obviously, the president thought.

The phone rang, and Landau picked it up. “It’s Secretary Coventry, Mr. President.”

He took the receiver and listened for only half a minute before handing it to Meyerson. “The secretary has informed me that the plane will be refueled very soon.”

It was approaching decision time, and now the president had a second, and more difficult decision to make.

“What do you think, Bart?” It was their first open, unheard question in many hours.

Hendrickson glanced back. The door was shut. “There’s enough noise from the engines. He won’t hear.”

The head terrorist had left them unattended, unexpectedly and without notice. It was their chance for some real information.

Buzz nodded. “Do it. Hurry.”

“Four-Two-Two heavy to any United States aircraft; come in.”

There was a short pause of static, then the reply. “Four-Two-Two, what is your situation?”

Hendrickson could sense the worry in the caller’s voice. “Don’t worry. The head guy left us alone. He’s the killer, but I don’t know his real whole name. Just his first: Mohammed.”

“Right, Four-Two-Two. We have good IDs on your friends. Now listen carefully. You were just about to hear from us. Help is there, at the airport, and they’re going to join you real soon. Do you understand?”

Hendrickson looked to his first officer and mouthed the word what? “A rescue? But how are…never mind. Go on.”

“All right. You’re gonna play a big part in this. How’s your acting?”

Huh?

Without waiting for an audible reply the caller went on, explaining the plan in just under a minute. “You’ve gotta deliver some kind of diversion and keep Mr. Big in the cockpit as long as possible. Something believable. Can you handle it?”

The pilots were still trying to swallow the idea of what was going to happen. “Yeah. That’s a roger, but are you sure about this?”

“Army says it’ll work, and I hear they get things right sometimes. Hey. They’re good. They’ll get you out of this.”

Right. Okay, I guess I’ve got to believe this. The captain realized he’d forgotten something. “Air Force, if this works we’re going to need a hell of a long runway.”

“Your brakes are gone, then. We monitored your engine and flap trouble. Hell of a job flying there, Four-Two-Two. Okay, we’ll get that figured out, and good luck on your takeoff. Weather informs me that you’ve got a twenty-five-knot surface wind coming straight down that runway you came in on if you go out the reciprocal.”

That might not be enough, but it would definitely help. “Thanks again, Air Force.” Hendrickson hoped it would be enough. It was time for some curiosity satisfaction. “Air Force — what the hell is weighing us down?”

Again, a pause preceded a terse reply. “Four-Two-Two, you don’t want to know.”

First they had started fueling on the left side, and then they switched to the right, necessitating moving the tankers and the pumper. Hadad wondered at first if they were not really workers, rather commandos in disguise. But, after all, this was friendly territory. The Cubans would simply want them to land and be on their way, and the closest American commando was across the Florida straits.

Why, then, am I nervous? he asked himself, instantly realizing that he was exerting extra pressure on the small round button that kept him alive. Possibly because I am so close to victory. Yes. The two brother fighters he took his name from, Mohammed Boudia and Wadi Hadad, had tasted victory. And they, too, are in paradise. That thought calmed him.

His seat on the right side of the lounge allowed him to watch the entire process: the scissor like lift on wheels lifting two blue-clad workmen up to the underside of the wing, where they attached the thick gray hose. The rumbling of the vehicles’ motors was distinct above the steady whine of the jet engines. Hadad wondered when they would be done.

“Mohammed.” It was Abu. Wael was beside him, looking perplexed. Hadad knew why.

“Go, Wael,” he said in his native tongue. “You watch the Americans.”

The big terrorist looked at Abu, who still stared at their leader, then entered the cockpit. Hadad turned back to the window.

“I can feel your words, Abu, so do not hold them in on my account.”

The younger of the two ran his hand through the black waves atop his head, his eyes searching the floor for words before coming back up to his leader. Hadad had turned to face him. His eyes were sullen, and very, very tired.

“We are in trouble, Mohammed?”

Hadad shook his head. It leaned slightly right, giving him an angular perspective of his comrade. He looked up and down at him.

“You are lying.”

“And you are too soft.”

“Soft!” Abu shouted, the word coming out in an Arabic shriek. “You leave the Americans alone at the controls, for how long now, so you can sit in here and…what?…pray for good fortune! And you say that I am soft?”

Hadad did not match Abu’s furious tone. “And who did you leave to watch all those below?” The rhetorical inquiry broke Abu’s gaze, sending his eyes back to the floor, but leaving his teeth visibly clenched. “Abdul.”

“He is—”

“—is alone with hundreds of our prisoners right below your feet. When there should be no fewer than two of you watching them, you leave only one. And as for good fortune, my friend, my brother, it is assured. Would Allah not have blessed us with life to this point if He had not wanted us to succeed?”

Abu breathed out his wrath. “Then we are in trouble.”

“Allah has protected us.”

“Against what? Why do you try to deceive me, and the others? We are not blind. The aircraft acts as if it is dying all around us.” Abu’s tone was a mix of cynicism and pleading. “Why are you pushing us so hard? Why are you pushing yourself? We are safe here. If there are problems with the aircraft we can stay and have repairs done before going on. The Cubans would not deny us that. What would a short delay—”

“No delay!” Hadad responded in a burst of determination.

“But—”

“No!” He stood up and stepped closer to Abu, leaving their faces only inches apart. “We are on a mission, one charged by Allah, and we will not delay its conclusion. If you choose to be weak and soft, then I have erred in my judgment of you. I believed that you were a soldier of Allah, a true one, who would accept his fate willingly.” Hadad knew the last words had slipped out.

Abu’s suspicions, which had grown in the last twelve hours, were confirmed. This was never meant to be a mission to humiliate and win concessions from the Americans. The reasons and intentions now became crystal clear. It was a personal mission they were on, not of their choosing, but of their leader’s. A grand drama of deception, indeed. One most effective on the integral parties.

“And the weapons in the hold?” Abu remembered being assured by Hadad that they were just for the Americans’ benefit, and were totally harmless.

“Gifts from Allah and our Arab brethren.”

Insh Allah, Abu said to no one. “You are going to use them on the Americans…in their own land.”

“We are,” Hadad corrected him. “At the very heart of their infidel government. It will be more than appropriate, and convenient for them. The mourning will already be in progress.”

“I see.” It was all Abu could think to say. His wife and his child would be living without him. The solace was that, if his leader was right, he would soon be in paradise, awaiting a glorious reunion.

That thought, however comforting, was short-lived. Abu had to admit that there were doubts now in his thoughts. Would he be with Allah, and the prophets of Islam? He wondered. He truly wondered.

Hadad slid back and sat on the arm of the aisle seat, leaning on the back with his free arm. “Accept your fate, my friend. Go below and help Abdul. I will have Wael rest up here. He has been awake much of the journey, yes?”

“Yes.”

Hadad smiled. It was meant to reassure his comrade. Abu turned his head first, his body following a split second later, and headed down below, his soul not yet at peace, but his mind having accepted his fate as a martyr.

Sandy was still sleeping, thank God. Michael could feel her chest rise and fall against his left arm, and occasionally her nose would rub against his neck as she nestled closer. The shouting from above had not awakened her as it had a few others. A man and woman across the aisle exchanged worried looks with Michael, and the terrorist forward of where they sat had nervously looked up sporadically during the verbal match. None of what was said — or yelled — had been heard with any clarity, but could displays of bellicosity mean anything good? Michael thought not.

The muffled thud of hard shoes on the carpeted stairway started, then stopped. One of the hijackers had come down. That left two upstairs. Michael had found himself increasingly keeping track of where the terrorists were, and how many were anywhere at any one time. Their situation, he felt, was not getting any better, and the fight or whatever upstairs didn’t lend comfort in the least. Something was wrong, in spades, and he was determined that if they started shooting, he was going to know where the nearest gun was, and he was going to take it — or die trying. For Sandy’s sake.

The thoughts that would have been more familiar in his military days abruptly faded. One of the terrorists, the one who had just come down, was walking aft. He was approaching Michael’s row.

For whatever reason, their eyes met, and the visual exchange seemed to slow time. The shared, silent exchange was brief, yet telling. Michael had seen something, more in the terrorist’s eyes than on his face. It was…what — futility? No. Resignation. That was it.

Michael was scared. For both of them. He was doubly grateful that his wife was sleeping, and he consciously listened to the sound of the footsteps retreating aft. He figured, after they had stopped, that the man was past the middle bulkhead of the nearly silent aircraft.

The rhythmic thrumping of the piston-driven pumper stopped with a sputter. Hadad moved to the window quickly. They were done. The last of the tank trucks was pulling away and the scissor lift was coming down next to the pumper. He carefully shifted the thumb switch to his left hand and took the Uzi in his right. Its barrel tapped rapidly on the cockpit door, and Wael opened it inward without taking his eyes off the pilots.

“Wael. Go rest.” Hadad added a head toss to the words.

Silently the huge terrorist slid between the half-open door and its frame, which Hadad closed and locked.

“They are done with refueling, correct?”

“Just now,” Buzz answered.

“Then we are leaving.” Hadad pressed the gun to the back of Buzz’s neck and leaned far forward, looking out the right-side window. The last two pieces of equipment were just clearing the area. “Get moving.”

“No way,” Hendrickson responded to the order.

With the barrel still embedded in the co-pilot, Hadad held the thumb switch out toward the captain. “You defied me before. This time your number two dies. Now move.”

“Listen. We have no brakes. None. How do you expect us to get in position for a takeoff if we roll into the mud beside the runway trying? If you want this aircraft to get off the ground, then we’re going to need a tug to position us. Got it?”

Hadad eased up the pressure of the Uzi. Buzz wanted to laugh, but just continued smiling and looking straight ahead. The cap was playing this guy hard.

“Get it,” Hadad ordered, stepping back. He held his left hand and the switch out in front until reaching the jump seat. It was just a minor delay, he kept telling himself. Just a minor delay.

“Did you see him?” McAffee asked.

“Twice. It was the same guy, I’m sure.” Sean handed the binoculars back. The vantage point was almost perfect through the six-inch opening between the hangar doors. “He was just looking out the cockpit window, and a minute ago he was looking out from one of the upper-deck windows.”

They had never had a picture of the head terrorist, but it was a sure bet he was the one in the cockpit. Past experience had shown that these guys liked to be in control.

“Captain, remember the face: He’s ours.”

Secretary Coventry was flanked by one aide and two gun-toting Cuban security troops, neither of whom seemed to be officers. It looked as though Castro wanted as little official contact with the United States as possible. All the better, the lanky Minnesotan thought, as he watched events unfolding from the blacked-out glass box a hundred feet above the ground.

The setup was entirely modem, to his surprise. He was a pilot, schooled completely in small, private craft, and had visited many a tower in his adult life — and in his early life, he reminded himself. His father was a farmer, then and now, though at almost eighty years of age he had largely turned over the operation to his youngest son, the secretary’s little brother. In his prime, though, he had flown the crop duster personally out of the airport near the four hundred acres, often taking his children up with him.

He had expected old analogue instruments and sweep lights on circular radar displays, but instead there were modem Japanese sets. They couldn’t have been more than two years old. The controllers spoke in hushed Spanish, more quietly the longer he had been among them.

One of the operators looked up, speaking directly to the State Department interpreter. The balding Cuban American listened to the full message. “Mr. Secretary, the aircraft has just asked for a tug. Apparently they have no brakes.”

“That’s no surprise.” Coventry held out his hand. The interpreter removed the handset from the portable unit slung on his shoulder and gave it to his boss.

The president answered the phone himself. “Yes.”

“The aircraft is about to leave, sir.” Secretary Coventry sounded cool. Maybe it was easier being close to the action, the president surmised.

He looked around at the other three. “Any last-minute concerns?” There weren’t. The situation had practically dictated the responses to it, a truism that the president was now well aware of, and determined to prevent from recurring. “Jim, I’m giving Delta the authorization to rescue the hostages as per the plan.”

Not ten feet away Secretary of Defense Meyerson picked up a tan-colored phone on the president’s desk. It rang immediately in the NMCC.

“Granger here.”

“General Granger, inform Delta to execute CLOUDBURST.”

There were no other words. Both the president and Meyerson hung up simultaneously.

“Here we go,” the NSA said. “People are going to die.”

“The right people, Bud.” Landau massaged the wooden arm of the chair. It was smooth and hard, and the grooves made by colonial workmen were impeccable still, after two centuries of wear. “That may seem wrong, I know. We’re raised to fear God, and to believe that every life is precious. Jesus, you know, we’ve got to believe that, even in this business when we’re talking about death…about causing death. It’s just that somewhere, for whatever reasons, some folks turn bad. They take a wrong turn. God knows some of them really believe they’re in the right, but they can’t preach their own divinity. My wife always says that a man can believe what he wants to believe, that he can convince himself of anything — anything! — but there is one force in the universe”—Landau’s wiry finger pointed upward—“that knows.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “We may be the great pretenders, but if so, then we’re the pretenders on the side of right. I can look inside my heart each night and see that. We all can.”

Wisdom, fortunately, spoke eloquently when aged in human form. Landau told the others all that they needed to hear, for their silent doubts were surfacing at the moment of truth. He had known such moments before, and again he had shared of himself.

“Bud,” the president started, then held his words for a long moment. He stood, digging his hands deep in his pockets. “I’ve thought about your idea, or proposal, whatever it is. It may be your thinking, but if I agree with it and decide to execute it then I am the final arbiter. You are an adviser.”

“Mr. President?” Meyerson sensed that one military operation was all that was going to happen.

The president faced his defense chief. “Stand down the strike, Drew.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, without visible disappointment, and picked up the same phone as before.

“Mr. President, are you going to approve the proactive plan?” Bud asked.

“Tentatively, yes. But I want this to be legal, accepted by those in Congress who need to know, and covert as hell. About the only thing the Agency’s previous residents did that was even semi-intelligent was trying to keep their actions secret.” To most those words would be deceitful, almost sinister, but the practice of ‘need to know’ was meant to protect. In a Utopian society everyone could know about everything — maybe. But not in the twentieth century. Some deeds of leaders were best left to follow those in the know to their graves.

“We’ll need a time line for Congress,” Landau noted. Only eight members of Congress would ever know about it, the absolute minimum allowed by law.

“I’d like Bud and you to put that together. Drew, your office will work with Bud and the CIA to get the operational details down.” He looked at his national security adviser. “I want complete security on this, Bud. Your responsibility.”

“Absolutely.”

The president went behind his desk and sat down. Except for the darkness through the window behind him he looked as though he had just sat down to start work. He dialed the office of his chief of staff. “Ellis. I just gave the go to Delta, so your work is going to pick up in an hour or so.” Gonzales was working with the presidential press secretary to ensure that the right word went out when the time came. “And, Ellis, I want you to call the Speaker and Majority Leader right away. Inform them of what’s going on, and set them up to be in my office at seven tomorrow evening. Yes, evening. There’s no time before the funeral, and the rest of the afternoon is shot. I don’t want to break any routine on scheduling this…clear? Good. Right, it’s quiet. And, one more thing. I want the attorney general in here in one hour. Quietly, also. Thanks.” He set the receiver down and looked at the wall clock. “How long, Drew?”

“Fifteen or twenty minutes. We’ll know in a half an hour.”

Many times before, presidents and their advisers had sat in that very room under similar circumstances. The Mayaguez incident. The Iran rescue mission. Son Tay. None had been completely successful, and one had been labeled a grand tragedy of failure. However, they would all pale in comparison to the success or failure of the present attempt to wrest American innocents from a willing and able foe. Success would bring jubilation and a major boost in the approval rating for the fledgling administration, an accepted measure of a chief executive’s ability to govern, like it or not. Failure, aside from the obvious loss of life, would shake the new government, and no one in the Oval Office had any illusions about the survivability of the new president if that should happen.

His ‘escorts’ were waiting exactly where the AWACS had told him they would be. He tracked them on radar, and they him, until their separation was minimal. Now their anti-collision lights outlined their frames, in unmistakable detail. Fulcrums.

Cooper’s usual ride, the F-15C, would be more of a comfort right now. It was damn hard to shake the sense of helplessness he felt just floating along, ten thousand feet up, with MiGs on each wing. Some other Air Force plane had been graced with their presence. The radio told all.

Radio, he remembered. It was just about time. He dialed in 243.0 on his radio, the military emergency frequency. The procedures for contact had been established hastily, leaving the weekend warrior wondering if the Cubans would be listening. And if they were, would they understand English?

“Romeo Flight to Springer Seven-Eight.” With only minutes to go, Cooper wanted to make damn sure no one else was near, especially in his blind spot.

“Romeo, go ahead.”

“Request traffic check.”

“Romeo, you’re clear out to two hundred miles. Just your two friends close in on you.”

The AWACS wouldn’t even have a defined radar picture of the MiGs. They were too close. It was their lack of proper Interrogator, Friend or Foe response that gave them away. When search radar emissions from the AWACS painted the three fighters, small transponders in each, if turned on, would add a ‘biography’ to the energy reflected back to the sending unit. If the unit was friendly, a coded response would identify it as such on the display. If not, it would be tagged a hostile. The MiGs were as concerned as the F-106 about being mistaken by their own radar, and, wisely, had their own IFFs turned on.

“Roger, Springer.” Now it was time to contact the Cubans. “United States aircraft, Romeo, to Revolution Flight.” They were obviously prone to ideological theatrics, even in their coding.

“Romeo, Romeo, go ahead.” The reply was in an amazingly accent-free English. Cooper had heard about something like this in recent years. The Cubans were using pilots well-versed in the language of the norte-americanos. Their linguistic skill had come from actually working and going to school in the States, a feat made possible by the much lamented DGI, the Cuban intelligence service. It had been one of their few successes in recent years, until the CIA had turned an overseas DGI agent, who had gladly told all. Operation Hermano Grande, as it was known in ironically Orwellian Spanish, soon came to a halt, though not until two dozen or more Cuban agents had been cycled through training north of the Rio Grande. Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras, all friendly nations to the United States, were unwittingly used as back doors into the country for the agents, who then were free to roam, with their forged visas, and become proficient in the language.

“Revolution Flight, I am climbing to angels”—he had to correct himself—“to twenty thousand.” The Cubans might know English, but he hoped they were still ignorant of military terms. God…what if one of them’s in the Air Force right now?

“Understood. We will follow and break away at—” the Cuban pilot watched as the Delta Dart nosed up and went to afterburner. Obviously the yanqui wasn’t going to wait. But, their orders were specific: escort and protect. That made the pilots, both alumni of Hermano Grande, want to spit. The Alamo missiles under each wing were meant to be targeted at Americans, not…

Cooper felt the familiar old kick in the butt as the J75 engine’s afterburner lit up, adding a crude form of rocket propulsion to the jet’s normal thrust. The F-106 pulled away from the Russian-built fighters, though there was no question that they could, if desired, fly circles around it That was the blessing of modem aircraft.

There was one thing the old bird could do that its younger bastard cousins couldn’t, and that knowledge scared the hell out of Snoopy. The Cubans couldn’t see his helmet shake slightly as he pondered just what he was supposed to do.

The three men in the cockpit lost sight of the squat-looking tug as it went beneath the nose of the Maiden. A minute later the big jet bucked backward a bit.

“She’s hooked.” Buzz noted the positive lock light go on, and also moved his gaze to the left a few inches. Another light would be going on soon, and with it a subtle buzzer.

Hendrickson sensed that the terrorist had again sat down. Did that mean he was relaxing? The whole crazy plan hinged on that. He had to make sure the killer felt safe.

“That’s it, Buzz. We’re rolling, and next stop is New York.” Nice try, the captain thought, knowing that he was neither a hypnotist nor a psychologist. He decided that he’d better just let things be, and hope for the best.

They were moving forward, Hadad felt. Very slowly. He let his eyes close for a moment, and his head tilt back. It was a moment of relaxation, his whole body feeling the release, with the notable exception of his thumb.

When his eyes again opened Hadad could see motion through the windshield. Faint lights moved from left to right as the aircraft swung slowly to the left.

As the Maiden finished her turn off of the curving crossway she had stopped on, and her rear aligned itself with the long taxiway along the runway, a set of double sliding doors came open in the darkness three hundred yards behind.

The Humvees sped across the narrow grass median between the hangar and the crossway in ten seconds, and powered up to 40 mph on the taxiway in eight seconds. They were blacked out, their drivers relying on the sidelights along the pavement and the glow of the 747’s underside strobe. Their target was on the right rear, aft of the pulsing light and in the cockpit’s blind spot.

Graber rose from his sitting position on the platform at the lead vehicle’s rear. There was an identical one on the following Humvee. Eight feet off the ground and moving at speed the captain knelt upright. McAffee had his left ankle from below. The wind was cold, and Sean figured it would even feel that way without the speed-induced gusts.

The Maiden was coming up quickly, and the drivers adjusted speed, expertly slowing without using the brakes. It was one time a sensitive accelerator and the governor worked well in an Army vehicle, requiring only a lifting of the foot off the pedal to slow the green-and-black vehicles.

Graber was astride his target now: the starboard rear cargo door. He rose up on his feet, holding on to the crude rail they had installed. Still, he was only at eye level with the metallic circle on the rectangular door’s lower side. He removed the four-inch key from around his neck, keeping it on the long lanyard that would catch it if a slip happened.

They all saw the captain’s foot stomp the metal grate platform. It was time for the light. Quimpo held up the Streamlight, aiming at the point that Graber’s outstretched arm was reaching for. The driver slid closer to the slow- moving jet, just…close…enough…

There it was. A one-inch vertical slit, dead center in the circle. It came closer, or the Humvee slid left — Sean couldn’t tell. But it was close enough. The tool-like key was gripped solidly in his right hand, and he moved it toward the slit, aiming and hitting the solid door the first time, and connecting perfectly on the second try.

“What is it?” Hadad stood at the buzzing sound.

Show time. “Son of a bitch!” Hendrickson reached across the console. He and Buzz were tapping and playing with the same switch. A light was flashing near it.

“What?” Hadad’s tone was calmer. He had almost become accustomed to setbacks, and for a second he wondered if Abu had been right. Maybe they should have waited for… No! The timing would be completely off. The purpose would not be achieved, and his brothers would have died in vain.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” Buzz turned his head as the captain continued to fiddle with the control. “Just our ram air turbine. It gives us power if the engines cut out on us.” He turned away then quickly back. “It ain’t surprising, considering what she’s been through.”

“Will it fly?”

It was Hendrickson’s turn. “She’ll fly, but if we need the RAT we’re going to be out of luck, unless it resets.”

Hadad sat back. Allah. Allah. Not now, when I am so close.

Graber waited until two of his teammates clambered up onto the platform before pulling on the key. Once turned it functioned as a handle, allowing the cargo door to be hefted upward. This was the manual method, of course, the usual way being to use the built-in hydraulic lifters. The necessary equipment to do that was a luxury in this case, requiring brute force to be used.

“Ready?” Graber shouted above the engine noise, getting nods from Antonelli and Quimpo.

He made sure the handle was turned fully, then pulled. The door cracked, then came outward and up giving an eighteen-inch clearance for entry. Sean maneuvered his head under the big door and felt for a handhold on the floor of the cargo deck. The perforated floor provided many, and he hefted himself up through the opening, which Antonelli had made even larger.

He was in. The viewpoint looking down was impressive. The driver of the Humvee looked straight ahead, gauging his speed perfectly against that of the aircraft. “Let’s go! Move! Move!”

Quimpo came next, and by the time he was fully in, McAffee and Anderson were atop the platform.

“Don’t drop that thing,” the major joked to Antonelli as Joe was pulled into the hold. McAffee followed the civilian in immediately. Two of the team then held the door from the inside as the biggest Delta trooper slid through the opening.

Joe slid back, away from the door to give the soldiers room, and came up against something solid with his back. His quarry.

The first vehicle pulled away and the second spurted forward into the precise spot. It took under two minutes to get the remaining Delta men aboard, then the Humvee slowed, turned abruptly, and joined its partner in a dash to the darkness of the taxiway behind.

Graber, Antonelli, and Quimpo found handholds on the door and pulled it down to the closed position. “There’s supposed to be an inner handle here,” Sean yelled above the rumbling.

“There.” Quimpo had the light on the black twist handle.

“Got it.” Antonelli gripped it and turned it back to vertical. That would release the outer key they had used. It would be lying on the pavement now.

“We’re in.” McAffee said, then gave the order to get ready.

The Maiden had to travel a near complete squared oval, much like the Indianapolis speedway, before she would be back in position to take off. First she crossed the runway on which she had landed, and then a parallel runway before coming left on the far taxiway. Then another left brought her back to her takeoff point, a spot she had traversed in the opposite direction a while before. The tug swung left one final time and positioned the 747 at her start point.

“This is it,” Buzz commented. The tug pulled away forward and turned off the runway at the first crossway.

“Fire-wall it and forget, I guess,” Hendrickson suggested. There was no procedure for anything like this. Taking off with three engines, overloaded, and with no flaps; they’d either write the aviation history books or fire-ball into a cane field.

“One, two, and four all show nominal.” Buzz looked at the overhead console. “Safety systems are ready.”

The captain looked up, too. Right above was the switch that, when thrown, would require the greatest acting job by any pilot since Jimmy Stewart.

And the tires. Hendrickson remembered about those. The four blown right mains would mean even more difficulty. “We’re going to need to compensate for the tires.”

“Rudder and nose wheel, as long as she holds.” Buzz didn’t know if it would. The flat tires would add friction on the right side, making the aircraft want to steer in that direction. Rudder to the left and manual steering would have to work, otherwise they would find mud and grass less than halfway down the runway.

“You know, Buzz, in my craziest dreams I could have never thought this up. Never.”

The old Marine smiled. “Something to tell the grandkids about.”

The captain looked around the cockpit, for no real reason he realized. It just seemed the thing to do. “As ready as we’ll ever be.” Ever? Now or never.

Once again the throttle hand of each pilot held the lever, Buzz backing up the captain. In one quick motion they pressed the handles forward against the built-in resistance. It was a quicker acceleration than normal, which bounced the 747’s nose up and then down as she gained speed.

“Fifty.”

Hendrickson had only one plan to get his baby airborne: pull the stick into his crotch at the end of the runway. It would be close. Without the flaps they would need to be going in the neighborhood of 200 knots to get up with just the elevators to point the nose skyward. With a 25-knot head wind — if it was still blowing — they could do it with 180 knots, their normal takeoff speed with systems functioning fully.

Buzz tweaked his column left with taps to keep the Maiden straight. It was working, even without using the nose wheel.

“One-twenty.” They were passing the halfway point, gaining speed. The faster they went, the more lift the wings generated. As that happened there was less pressure on the main gear, which allowed the blown tires to actually rise up off the pavement and spin somewhat freely. That reduced the friction and allowed for more speed and less worry about keeping on the centerline.

“One-fifty. She’s doing it! She’s doing it!”

Hadad heard the number two’s excitement, but he already knew they would make it. It had been difficult. More difficult than he had imagined, but he had been successful. He laid the Uzi on his lap and reached into the left breast pocket. The click came first, and then he let his thumb rise for the last time. He massaged it on his forefinger, and set about clearing his mind for the journey that would begin at the end of this one.

The three-quarter mark shot by as Buzz called out 170 knots. The captain brought the stick fully back into his gut as fast as the built-in resistors would allow. The nose came up around them.

“One-ninety!”

If he had calculated correctly the end would be right…

Now! The feeling of air enveloping a plane was unmistakable. It was like suddenly being suspended in smoothness, with the vibrations of the earth lying far behind.

“Shit.” Buzz kept his hands ready to back up on the stick and the throttles. “She’s up! We’re up!”

They were at one hundred, then two, then three, and slowly gaining altitude and speed as the captain brought the nose down a bit. He looked across the console to his first officer.

“You’re sweatin’, Bart.” Buzz smiled like a kid in a go-cart.

“Slow climb. Real gentle.” Hendrickson would keep the Maiden right where the powers that be wanted her. The rest was up to them. Almost.