Cloudburst

Two ABOVE AND BELOW

The deep shadows of the coming summer evening stretched out from the Greek coast to cover the Aegean Sea in an eerie blue incandescence as the light danced rapidly from the earth below. Andros, a larger island in the chain of many smaller ones, was directly beneath the Clipper Atlantic Maiden as she descended gracefully toward Athens, her stop for the night. She floated downward, the sun low on the horizon but still gleaming brightly off her shiny surfaces. Her sister ship, the Clipper Angelic Pride, was some forty nautical miles behind on a flight from New Delhi, though she would be doing a quick turnaround and flying on to the States overnight, New York being her final destination. The Atlantic Maiden, inbound from Beijing, would continue on across her namesake ocean the next morning on her somewhat special flight.

Captain Bart Hendrickson, the picture of a sturdy Nordic American, loved his job and especially the Maiden, as he called his plane. It was not just his plane. Other pilots flew her, as was the norm in the scheduling of flight crews in the operations of the larger carriers, but he had been very fortunate to rotate into the Maiden two times out of every three over the last nine months.

She was a new — in aircraft life — Boeing 747–400, one of the more recent generation of jet airliners that relied on new technologies to enhance their performance and extend their useful life. The bulk of the advancements were on the flight deck, the cockpit, which now required a crew of just two: the pilot and a first officer. Use of video display-type screens for nearly all of the instrumentation and the condensation and restructuring of information presentation had allowed for a reduction in the crew size from the old four. The move was fought tooth and nail by the pilots’ unions, who claimed that it would be a safety risk. Captain Hendrickson knew that claim for what it was: a complaint that jobs would be sacrificed and the ladder to reach the pinnacle of flying, a captaincy, would have a discouragingly large number of rungs added to it. In the major airlines a pilot could wait up to thirty years to command a jumbo jet. Elimination of the flight engineer position on the flight deck would reduce the number of entry slots and the need for pilots. It was a wise economic move for the carriers to appropriate planes such as the 747–400 and its newer and smaller cousins. Profit margins were shrinking in the industry, making every penny count. Bart Hendrickson, fifty-eight, blond with no hint of gray, and a wearer of the coveted bird wings for thirty-two years didn’t care much for the financial or economic reasons for the changes. The main thing was that he felt flying was safer and, as important, more fun.

“Bart, number three is showing that four percent drop in compression again,” First Officer Adam ‘Buzz’ Elkins announced. He was an old Marine — one was never an ex-Marine — as his taut upper body and the now graying crewcut attested. There hadn’t been a day since his first at Parris Island twenty-two years before that he had let his hair grow beyond the half-inch needles that they were. His brown eyes, set into a tanned face, were passionless, but read like a novel when emotion spurred them.

The captain looked at the engine performance indicator. In earlier days he might have thumped the glass-covered gauge with a finger, but now the needle was represented by a slim video image on the display, and that was merely for quick reference; the digital readout above each engine’s indicator rendered an exact measurement. “It’s probably the compressor.”

“Again. Oh well.” Buzz was not surprised with the problem. The Maiden had needed the primary compressor replaced twice before in the number three engine, the last time less than five months earlier. “Athens doesn’t have the facilities for us.”

“Yeah.” That was one problem, the captain thought. Not every airport could service some of the newer jets. “What was the max flux in compression?”

“Just four percent,” Buzz answered. “Passing one-two- thousand.”

“Roger.” Hendrickson pressed the mike switch, opting for manual operation instead of ‘hot mike,’ which continuously transmitted everything said. Most crews did the same, except in busy times. The ground didn’t need to hear all that was said upstairs. “Athens approach — Four-Two-Two heavy passing one-two-thousand.”

“Roger, Four-Two-Two heavy. Maintain descent to four thousand. Enter pattern on eastern leg at six thousand. Maintain heading until coastal VOR intersect.”

“Roger, Athens. Descending to four thousand. Maintaining two-eight-zero to VOR intersect.”

“Inbound, five-zero miles.” Buzz called out the distance to ‘wheels down.’

Hendrickson acknowledged the announcement, smiling at the half-oval glow where earth met sky. Even glitches couldn’t dampen his spirit, nor the growing sense of nostalgia he was experiencing. The big, beautiful 747–400 could just as easily have been an old Lockheed Constellation, his first command in the Air Force. That moment flashed back in his mind. God! Had it been that long?

“I hope three doesn’t drop anymore,” Buzz commented, his attention focused on the instruments.

“If it does we’re going to have to have a spare feathered in.”

“That, as they say, would be a bitch.” The sight of a spare engine attached to a perfectly good 747 was unnatural. The spare, slung beneath a wing like a normal, functioning engine, made the bird look lopsided and perform sluggishly. Buzz didn’t want to wish that upon any other pilot. He had previously been fortunate enough to crew on a big jet that had brought one into Karachi, Pakistan, and it had not been fun. “Specs say one to two constant is nominal. Three to uh…” The first officer scanned the specification and performance lap book for the 747’s power plants. “…three to six is acceptable.”

“Yep. It fluxed to twelve that last time before they replaced it. We can call ahead and have one waiting at Heathrow tomorrow.”

Buzz hated delays, but a delay in London was better than a delay in Athens. For all its supposed beauty, he hated the city. It was dirty everyplace he looked. “Sounds like a plan.”

Hendrickson gave it a subtle nod, and Buzz called the ground maintenance station in Athens on the company frequency. They would notify Heathrow.

The bustling British airport would be a welcome destination for the captain. His last stop before arriving home…for good. Thirty-two years in the air had been good to him. Never again, though, would he have to leave Anita. Yes, thirty-two years of good-byes had been difficult, but she had never, ever complained. She knew that her husband loved to fly, almost as a child would look wide-eyed at the big and pretty planes as they landed. He had wished as a child to fly someday, a wish that became reality in the Air Force. Anita remembered his excitement the day of his first solo in a Lockheed Constellation. Nothing could shut him up. He told her every detail of the two-hour flight, and most of it was Latin to her. His outward excitement had softened over the years, but not the inner rush.

“Passing ten thousand,” Buzz announced. He could see the slight smile on the captain’s face and the reflection of the day’s last light in his dark aviator glasses.

“Roger.” Hendrickson pressed the seat belt sign activator.

“Three’s back up to nominal.”

“Good. Maybe we won’t have to delay in England.”

“Anxious to get home, Bart?”

“I’m always anxious. This time I get to stay.”

It was a place shown only on the maps of some intelligence services, but it did exist, just south of Benghazi. There were buildings, some modern, but none larger than would be found elsewhere in the desert, and there was space. That was the need. Space for those who came to Al-‘Adiyat to become proficient at their craft. To help them, there was a teacher.

Did they not receive my warning? Did they not believe me?

Captain Muhadesh Algar felt the warmth fading from his back as he pondered what had happened. He swiveled his chair around to face the open window. There was a glow on the horizon from the sun, and to the north the lights of Benghazi would soon start to overcome the approaching desert night. Very far away something was happening in America. He wondered what. He had tried to warn them.

“Captain Algar.”

Muhadesh swung around. It was Indar. “Lieutenant.”

“I knocked, sir, but you did not answer.”

The wormlike lieutenant may have knocked, Muhadesh thought, but probably not. A father on the Revolutionary Council could get you any job, and protect you from losing it, even if you were a tactless incompetent. “What is it, Indar?”

“Sir, the new group scheduled to arrive tomorrow has been canceled.”

“On whose authority?”

“Colonel Hajin,” Indar answered, swallowing hard. His job was safe, but Captain Algar’s wrath was legendary, especially of late he was told.

Muhadesh pulled himself up to the desk. The lieutenant stood at perfect attention before his commander, his hands folded left over right behind his back, just as prescribed in the regulations. In appearance he was a fine officer. Every crease in his green uniform was straight and crisp, his hair was trimmed in the fashion of a recruit, close to the skull, and his face was shaved as close as close could be. He was attentive to detail, as expected, and followed every order exactly. But the orders are not always mine, Indar. You listen too well to others.

“I see,” Muhadesh replied calmly. He opened the top center drawer of his metal desk and removed his writing paper.

“Sir?” Indar was at a loss. His commander was accepting this too easily.

“Do not worry, Lieutenant,” Muhadesh said, looking up at his young assistant. Twenty-five and a lieutenant in the Training Battalion. My battalion! “Colonel Hajin must have his reasons. Good reasons. You show too much concern for an executive lieutenant, Indar. Others better equipped than we to understand situations make these decisions, and we obey. Of course I am not happy with the loss of a group, but it has happened before. Maybe the Americans are in an excited state after the death of their president and are thinking, once again, of taking vengeance upon us. Colonel Hajin would surely not want a group of our revolutionary brothers caught in a raid by the devil Americans. We are a target, after all.” Indar began to smile with understanding. That was the one nice thing about the lieutenant: He bought the revolutionary hogwash without question. “So go about your duties. I will deal with the developments.”

“Yes, sir!” Indar saluted enthusiastically, a smile spreading across his narrow face. The commander would surely let Colonel Hajin know what he thought about the cancellation of this month’s class. Captain Algar was a master of the venomous pen. Indar could only imagine what his commander would write in his message to the high-and-mighty Hajin in Tripoli.

He did imagine, but he was wrong. Hajin, Colonel Muhammar Qaddafi’s personal aide and a man of considerable power, would receive no letter from Muhadesh — he would receive a visit. The written message was going elsewhere.

The last of the daylight had touched the ceiling of the hangar through the slightly parted sliding doors a few minutes before. The three men who were in the hangar did not notice this, as the powerful overhead lights created their own sense of day and night as they were turned on or off. They were all ready and waiting to begin what they had prepared for. There had been many months of training in a place near where all three had grown up, though it was not their home. It could not be. Only one place could be their home. One day it would be. All there was to do now was continue with the minor last- minute details that were important preparations for success, but at this stage more so for usefully occupying time.

One of the three stood, taking his weapon in hand from the small square table, where two others were disassembled for cleaning. The Israeli-made Uzi felt good, but still a bit slick from the penetrating oil used to clean the desert dust from its exterior. He took it by the sling, wiping his palm on his pants. It never occurred to him that his choice of weapons was somewhat ironic, yet a man could be easily killed by his own handiwork. That might have pleased him, if his limited intellect were to allow its comprehension.

“I am going to rest,” the man spoke, his voice soft and steady with a slight nasal pitch. It was mild in comparison to his size, which was massive, both in height and width.

“We will wake you, Wael,” Abu assured him.

Wael walked toward the small office on the opposite side of the hangar, passing the four large boxes that sat on wheeled aircraft cargo pallets. They were connected in a short train as ordinary ones were, but the five-foot green cubes were not the usual metallic containers. They had the appearance of oversized wooden boxes with two-by-fours for edge supports and diagonal braces from corner to corner. Without breaking stride he let his free hand go to the boxes and glide along their surfaces. He wondered what was in them. What was it that they now sat with that would help them succeed in their mission?

The thought left him when he entered the small office, separated from the hangar by glass. A cot had been moved in there, and a second later his body disappeared below the window line.