Cloudburst

Four DEMONS

Bud rolled over at the sound of the phone. God, it can’t be five already. He felt cold with just shorts on and pulled the sheets up to cover his shoulders as he picked up the receiver.

“DiContino.”

“Sir,” the male voice began, sounding much like one of the many government subordinates, secretaries, and deputies who came on a line in advance of their superior. “This is the NSC watch officer. I have a priority-one message from the FAA.”

Bud pushed himself up to a sitting position on the bed’s edge and shook the last of the sleepiness from his head. “Go ahead.” It took only a minute for the situation to be explained. “Jesus. You better get the coffee going. I’ll be there shortly.”

He released the line and dialed the White House communications center. It rang only once.

“Com center.” The operator was female and all business.

“This is NSA DiContino. Secure this line and connect me with Secretary Meyerson.” There was a hollow hum as the connection was switched and then the ringing at the other end, sounding like an alarm bell in a tunnel. There hadn’t been time since his ascension in government to install one of the newer UltraCrypt telecommunications security systems on his phone, an older, still compatible system having been placed in a rush.

“Hello,” an abruptly roused Meyerson answered.

“Drew, this is Bud.”

“What time is it?”

Bud checked. “Almost three.” He switched the receiver to the other ear and flipped on the bedside lamp. “There’s a situation.”

The secretary noticed the sound of the secure line. “What?”

Bud took a little longer explaining to the secretary than the NSC watch officer had giving him the information. Meyerson was already half dressed when he hung up, and only his tie was left to put on by the time he made the call he had to make.

Captain Bart Hendrickson leveled the Clipper Atlantic Maiden off at three thousand feet above the shimmering Mediterranean Sea. Normally he would be flying at an altitude of thirty-one thousand on a heading of three-zero-zero degrees, but this was obviously no ordinary flight plan, and certainly not normal conditions. It had been nearly a year since he had commanded with a third man in the cockpit, thanks to the advances of the 747–400, and never had he flown with that third person wearing what he said was a bomb and pointing a submachine gun at the back of his head. He figured it was going to be a day for firsts.

“Any other instructions?” the captain asked.

The young man, looking like a Middle Eastern businessman traveling on the Athens-to-London leg of the flight, pressed the muzzle of the 9mm Mini-Uzi harder into the captain’s neck. “Two-five-zero…just fly,” he repeated the earlier orders.

The first officer had to grit his teeth in an effort to restrain himself. An old Marine, Buzz would always retain the habits instilled in him by the Corps — like keeping his crew cut. And there were other more valuable ones: like respect, and pride. To some they were clichés. To a Marine they were part of the soul. Which was why his stomach was turning at the sound of the pirate ordering his captain around. You fuckhead.

The hijacker stepped back and sat in the observer’s jump seat, a fold-down chair behind the captain’s seat, facing forward, which was often used by pilots hitching a ride between airports. He kept the compact black Uzi in his left hand, pointing at the console between the pilots, and the trigger switch in his right. Both pilots were stubborn, he noticed. They were probably soldiers. Arrogant American Marines. Killers! Yes, they would expect that the whole world should bow to them and their mighty numbers, caring nothing for those they crushed on their unholy crusades. Oh yes! They were a powerful force, but they answered to an infidel. The armies of Allah fought a just cause. They were blessed by their purity and devotion to the Great One, the Almighty Protector of the faithful legions that would march into battle with souls cleansed by His grace. The power of Allah gave strength to even the smallest of His armies, and that strength would now be used by the smallest of those many armies — a single man — to deal a crushing blow to the Great Satan.

Buzz turned his head to face the hijacker, disregarding his tendency toward a lack of self-control. His stare was met by dark, flared eyes, and a swivel of the gun, which now pointed directly at his face. The hijacker raised both eyebrows as if to ask, “Do you want to be shot?” The time would come, Buzz knew. He turned back to the instruments. Next to him Captain Hendrickson guided the Maiden on the ordered course. It was ‘his stick.’ He wanted his first officer well rested to back him up, remembering the prolonged ordeal the crews of other hijacked aircraft had gone through. That would be difficult, knowing Buzz. He was probably pissed as hell and ready to snap the hijacker’s neck, if it weren’t for that suicide vest and its deadman’s switch.

The captain was angry himself. Angry at the animal that would play God and threaten the lives of the 342 people aboard his aircraft, but angrier still at the unseen person or persons who made this act of barbarism possible. The hijacker could not have carried his weapons on board under any circumstances. No, someone had done the job for him…the tools of terror had been waiting for him when he boarded and took his first-class seat.

He was up, showered, and dressed in his olive drab BDUs twelve minutes after receiving the warning order. Showering included shaving. The creases were perfect and as straight as an arrow, as they always were, except when he was doing what he loved most: being a soldier. William ‘Bill’ Cadler had begun his military career as a private in 1959, a foot soldier who had slogged through his share of mud. He was a colonel now, the ground forces commander of the Joint Special Operations Command, an entity encompassing the much touted and maligned Delta Force — his unit. They were a formidable group, the GFC believed, but rarely were they allowed to show their mettle, and never had they been ordered in to actually perform their prime assignment: the rescuing of hostages.

Now another ‘stand to’ order. They came regularly, usually followed by a ‘stand down’ order. Occasionally there was an assignment. Protecting high-risk dignitaries was common, though that simply relegated Delta to the role of a reactionary force. Someday, though, it would come. The right circumstances and place and time would all come together, and the green light would be given. They would be ready.

The phone in his private quarters buzzed. “Cadler… Right. Good, Major. Hit the buzzer.”

The claxon would have woken the dead. Eight pairs of legs swung over the bedsides in the barracks of the ‘hot squad.’ In a separate barracks the ‘slack squad’ was still sleeping, but they, too, would be called if additional manpower was needed. Other men besides the eight had also been roused. Two three-man crews were running to their Blackhawk helicopters less than two hundred yards from the barracks. Farther to the east, at the adjacent Pope Air Force Base, a C-141B lifter assigned to the somewhat secret Twenty-third Air Force and dedicated to Delta would soon be fully crewed, her engines ready to crank.

The men were dressed in their mottled green camouflage BDUs in three minutes and running with their gear bags in hand to the nearby briefing center a minute later. Delta’s headquarters, the Stockade, even after extensive modifications, from the air still resembled its former self. Getting from point A to point B was not the easiest of things in the Stockade’s periphery corridors and rooms which all snaked off the central building complex. The Delta troopers had long since learned that the quickest way from their barracks to the briefing center was outside: a jog out the side exit, then a half-oval course past the building’s main entrance and its somewhat out-of-place rose garden, and finally to the green door that led in.

A bright sodium light illuminated the area outside the briefing center, and the figure standing next to the door. He was there as he always was when the unit was called out, his face as black as the darkness farther away. Major McAffee stood solidly as the men approached. He made ‘at ease’ look overpostured.

Captain Sean Graber hit the door first. Inside he dropped his bag at the back and took his seat. Colonel Cadler was already at the room’s lectern. Lieutenants Buxton and Antonelli followed their squad leader in and were in turn followed by the rest of the team, all sergeants of various grades. Quimpo, the Filipino weapons specialist and senior NCO leadoff, with Jones, Makowski, Lewis, and the unit’s chief medic, Goldfarb, following. McAffee followed the last trooper in. Behind, in the distance, one of the two helicopter’s engines started. The closed door failed to muffle the sound completely.

Colonel Cadler waited for the major to join him at the front before beginning.

“Morning, boys,” he said, his thick Texan accent dripping from each word. They all looked eager, as they did each time they entered this room. Cadler noted that it was Graber’s squad. They had the highest number of call-outs per rotation. Just lucky, he guessed. “Major McAffee, would you read the orders, please.”

The colonel handed the red-striped envelope to his XO, who had already read the orders. McAffee stood next to Cadler, who leaned on the podium.

“ ‘From: Chairman, Joint Special Operations Command. To: Special Operations Detachment, Delta. At oh-seven-forty Zulu, an American passenger aircraft was hijacked by an unknown person or persons. You are to immediately begin preparations for extraction of the hostages. More to follow. General Burkhardt sends thumbs-up and fingers crossed.’ ” The major looked up and handed the orders back to the colonel. The troops had received the same type of order before — many times. General Burkhardt knew this when issuing the warning order. ‘Fingers crossed’ was not a wish for luck; it was a hope that the mission would get a go.

Cadler stepped to the side of the podium. “I want you on the helos in two minutes. We’ve got a hangar reserved for us at Pope. Major McAffee will lead the planning. Major, make the slack squad hot, and get a senior NCO in on the liaison group just in case we need to sweeten our force.” McAffee nodded acknowledgment. “Any questions? Good. The birds are turning, so don’t keep them waiting. Major McAffee and I will follow in the second bird. Fingers crossed. Dismiss the squad, Major.”

The eight troopers stood automatically. “Dismissed.”

They were gone from the room in seconds. Cadler and McAffee walked out behind them into the chilly early- morning air. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, evidenced by the countless specks of light visible in the area of the base with its lack of civilian lighting. The colonel looked up. “Mike, someone up there knows if this is the one.”

“When it’s right, sir,” McAffee said, exposing his non-fatalistic streak.

“Right my ass! These boys are as ready as they’ll ever be. They’ve got combat experience, they’re pumped. Hell, we’ve trained and trained and trained, Mike. You know that as well as I do. These boys need some honest-to-God experience taking down some bad guys. Hell, only you and the captain have any actual trigger time.”

“You, too, Colonel.”

“My sorry old ass? That was a ground action, and it was a cluster fuck,” Cadler answered, referring to his part as the unit XO in the failed Iranian rescue mission. Blackjack had also been there.

“I hear you. It’s not our worry, though.”

“Oh hell, Mike. There you go again with that crap. Washington and the briefcase brigades make the decisions, but do you have to accept it so easily?” Cadler smiled, putting his arm on the taller man’s shoulder. “Jesus. Someone might think you graduated from Harvard instead of our beloved West Point.”

McAffee feigned surprise. “Go Army!”

“Spirit, man!” Cadler let out a deep chuckle, a true belly laugh. The Blackhawk was directly ahead.

“What’s our status, Colonel?”

Cadler didn’t look hopeful. “Our end of it’s up and running. The liaison group is set up; they’ll plug in with the intel services and pass it along to planning. You have the force. The planning is yours. If we get a go, you lead. I’m gonna try and get something hard on whatever’s going on.”

“What’s the best we have?” McAffee asked. He would need something in order to start the wheels of a plan in motion.

“Diddily. It’s a 747, that’s it. The pilot squawked the hijack code and dove for the deck. I’d assume we’ll have somebody keeping an eye on that bird pretty soon.”

“Okay,” the major responded with some exasperation. “It looks like nothing ever changes. Minimum intelligence at best.” He was silent for a few steps. “What about something similar to rehearse on?”

Cadler punched the major in the arm, then pointed a strong finger at his nose. “You’ve got it.”

The two officers walked slowly toward the sound of the turning rotors. Lights were coming on in the distance, illuminating the side-by-side dark green helicopters. They sat long and squat under their idling rotors. The eight men of the hot squad trotted, heads ducked, to the side door of the near Blackhawk and jumped in without breaking stride.

“Colonel, I want a go as much as you…as much as they do.” McAffee motioned to the helicopter. It was a hundred yards away as the engines revved and lifted it skyward, its nose slightly down, and moved forward away from the lights. Its own anti-collision lights colored the underside a pulsing red. The noise was oppressive, and it passed almost directly above Cadler and McAffee on its six-minute flight to Pope. A group of soldiers ran up to the second Blackhawk and loaded several boxes and duffels under the direction of the dark-helmeted crew chief.

“It ain’t any different,” Cadler said, his head shaking and eyes downcast before coming up. The noise of the departing helo waned as it moved off into the night. “We train and drill. Every time we think it’s this time, it’s not. So, Mike, we do it all over. You know why? ‘Cause we’ve got some demons to exorcise.”

Demons, indeed, McAffee thought. Delta was still associated with the fiery debacle in the Iranian desert back in 1980, something that they had no culpability for as a unit. Again it was ‘brass fever’ that had fucked things up. It was a reputation, though undeserved, that they had to overcome.

Both officers stepped into the dark cabin of the Black- hawk, returning the salutes of the crew chief and ground crew as they did. Colonel Cadler put on his headset and immediately got to work contacting the mobile headquarters now operating out of hangar 9 at Pope. Blackjack closed his eyes and crossed his fingers, hoping for a go, but wondering if anyone really knew what a green light would mean.

Four miles ahead, Captain Sean Graber was entertaining much the same thought.

Captain Muhadesh Algar was cold. He regretted having brought the topless jeep, wishing he had driven his Range Rover instead. His one small bag was on the seat beside him.

What? Benina Airport, eighteen miles from the center of Benghazi, was a civil and military airfield familiar to Muhadesh. He had often met his students there as they arrived from the many countries of their origin. But never had he seen this.

He slowed the jeep. A soldier of the regular army stood mid-road with a hand held out to his front. On both sides of the two-lane road were T-80 tanks, their 125mm cannons pointing down the length of the road. A group of twenty or so soldiers became very serious, taking their AK-74s in both hands as the jeep came to a stop. One of the crewmen protruding from a tank swung the 12.7mm heavy machine gun right at the small brown vehicle. The soldier blocking its path did not move as an officer walked hurriedly past to the driver side of the jeep.

“What do you…” The tall, thin lieutenant let his hand slip from where it rested on the top of his holster to his side with red-faced embarrassment. “Captain Algar!” He came to attention. “Sir, I did not know it was you. Lieutenant Ashad Hamshari, sir! Can I help you?”

Muhadesh looked around from his seat. “I am going to the airport. A flight to Tripoli.”

The lieutenant swallowed hard. “Sir, my orders are to allow no one into the airport perimeter. Did you not pass the roadblock at the highway? They should have told you of this. I will—”

“Lieutenant Hamshari, I am commander of the Third Training Battalion, fifteen miles east of here. I traveled on the entrance road to our compound.” You idiot. Incompetence and ignorance seem to be required for promotion. “As you must know, it intersects this road between here and the main highway.”

“Yes, of course.”

“So, Lieutenant, can you tell me why I must miss my flight? There is a reason?”

“Sir…yes, I am certain there is, but…” The Lieutenant stared, mouth open, at Muhadesh.

“I see. Following orders.” Muhadesh snickered. “Who, may I ask, issued the orders?”

“Colonel Hajin, sir.”

I should have… “Very well. I expect that Colonel Hajin has made it clear that only those with his permission may pass.”

“Exactly,” the answer came, almost apologetically. “Do you have such authorization, Captain?”

“Would I be sitting on this road if that were the case? Lieutenant Hamshari, you are responsible for notifying me, or my executive officer, Lieutenant Indar, immediately once the airport is open. Is that very, very clear?”

“Yes, sir. You will know the moment I do.”

Muhadesh returned a salute and turned the jeep sharply around, putting one wheel on the soft side of the road before heading back the way he had come. Already he was trying to figure out what was going on. Something was, that was certain. He wasn’t a good analyst of inferences or subtle intelligence tidbits — that was not his way. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Hajin…what are you up to?

Mohammed Hadad felt at peace and in control. All had gone so well. The attack by the martyrs in America had dealt a crushing blow, the beginning of a greater deed that would teach not only the Americans, but also their unholy allies and puppets, the power of Allah. And they would be powerless to stop it. The blessing of the Great One brought strength and determination to the righteousness of his purpose. His own life was meaningless when compared with the purpose. It was what drove him now. It was his reason to go on. The only reason. The power was awesome. None could resist it. The Greek infidel could not. He had placed the weapons on the plane for a simple, meager bribe, and he would surely be discovered. And soon, Hadad knew, the final dagger would be unsheathed.

Hadad looked ahead. The pilots were intent on their flying, almost as if the concentration could mask their fear. Oh yes, they feared him, even in their arrogance. That was why he made them fly so low. He saw that they feared that too. They were comfortable in their routines and familiar procedures, precisely why he commanded them to do what he wanted. He was in control. At one point he had ordered them to fly just three hundred feet above the water. They were very nervous then. I am in control. They fear me.

He looked at his watch. It was time to begin the taunting. Now he would captivate not only these people, but the entire world. Hadad reached into his pocket while holding the Uzi under his arm.

“Broadcast this,” he commanded, handing the message — typed in perfect English — to the pilot.

Captain Hendrickson took the paper in hand and scanned it. The message was short. He half turned in his seat, a task made difficult by the harness and semi form-fitting cushions, and faced the hijacker. He was young, very handsome, and neat-looking with his nicely cut dark hair. There were tan lines along his temples where glasses had been. Odd, the captain thought. The hijacker looked like he had spent some time at the beach. And what could cause a young man like this to do what he was doing? He didn’t fit the terrorist profile: nervous, loud, violent. He could have been fresh out of some corporate training program by appearance. The man was calm, almost serene, though his eyes bore no doubt that he would use his weapon. But the bomb? Was he suicidal? Would he release the switch and kill everybody, or was it a bluff?

“Buzz, send this,” the captain said, handing the paper over. “My stick.”

“Roger, your st—”

“No!” Hadad shouted, displaying agitation for the first time. “You send the message! You do it as I ordered!”

The captain turned again. “Listen,” he began, his voice raised noticeably. “I am flying this aircraft. If you want to get wherever it is you’re planning to go, then I suggest you let me do my job.”

Hadad glared into the pilot’s wide eyes. Yes, I need you to fly, infidel. It is all right that you think you have won. He shifted his look to the copilot and stepped back, sitting down in the jump seat. “Go ahead.”

Buzz took the paper and, after a quick look over it, pressed the column-mounted mike switch.

One hundred and twelve miles to the west the Frisbee-topped E-2C Hawkeye from the USS Carl Vinson had just finished topping off its tanks from its tanker. Two F-14 Tomcats, with their own tanker support, were loitering seven thousand feet below the Hawkeye, designated Hammer Two-Seven. The Tomcats were just a precaution. Flight 422 was paralleling the North African coast some three hundred miles offshore, and Hammer Two-Seven was equally close, following the 747’s westerly course.

The crew of the Hawkeye, an early-warning aircraft with a powerful radar in its top-mounted rotating dome, were mostly young, but highly trained and vigilant. Not only were they monitoring the hijacked aircraft, a task they performed with great seriousness, they were also keeping an eye open for any of Qaddafi’s ‘aerial submarines,’ as they called the hopelessly ill-manned Libyan fighters. The colonel had been crazy enough to send his warplanes after U.S. forces in the area before, hence the derogatory nickname as the jets became proficient at subsurface maneuvers. The crew of the unarmed radar plane were nonetheless pleased that the two F-14s were nearby.

On the radar officer’s screen the 747 was a clearly painted target. The altitude of the target — non hostile aircraft were targets, hostile ones were bandits — was fuzzy, but certainly below two thousand. That was an altitude quite uncomfortable for the pilots of large aircraft, as it left little room for error or recovery in the event of a power loss. The radar officer tried to picture it, lumbering over the ocean, its four turbofans leaving a trail of thunder on the water. The altitude readout had actually ceased at one point, a sign that the target had dropped below five hundred feet. Crazy fuckers!

“Sir! Target is transmitting!” the communications officer, a lieutenant, announced. Both hands were pressing the black headphones against his ears.

Commander Jack Polhill, Hammer Two-Seven’s commanding officer, ordered Com to put it on speaker. ‘On speaker’ meant through the intercom feed to the other crew members. It was a term that had stuck, though it was something of a misnomer, like Polhill’s title; he commanded the aircraft, but didn’t fly it.

“Four-Two-Two heavy to any station.” The broadcast was on the international civilian aircraft emergency frequency.

“Com, don’t reply,” Polhill instructed. “Let’s ride it out and see what’s up.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Four-Two-Two heavy to any station.”

The commander knew that several stations would be listening to the transmission. “Everyone is hesitant. That figures.” Contact could be more than its worth to any uninvolved government.

“Four-Two-Two heavy…this is Cairo Tracon…go, uh, go ahead.”

“Not a popular conversation partner, sir,” Com observed.

“Never are.”

“Four-Two-Two heavy to station responding…you are faint…repeat.”

The commander turned to Radar. “Plot.”

The information was instantly available. “Target bearing zero-one-eight, relative; one-zero-eight, true; angels three; speed four-zero-zero knots; course, two-five-zero, true.”

The air traffic controller in Cairo did not respond immediately to the call. Flight 422 was a scant three thousand feet above sea level and having difficulty reading the transmission from the land-based station. It was a simple matter of radio line of sight.

“Coming up, sir,” Radar said excitedly. “Angels three and a half. Bearing and course steady. Distance one-one-zero miles.”

“Keep it coming, Radar.” An uneasy feeling materialized in Commander Polhill’s stomach, like something wasn’t quite right. Why was Cairo answering instead of…? “Com. Move the Tomcats twenty miles south…fast.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Sir, target climbing from angels three and a half.”

“Cairo Tracon…this is Four-Two-Two heavy.”

“Sir, angels four. Everything looks steady.”

“Four-Two-Two heavy,” the controller acknowledged in non-native English, the international air traffic language, “this is Cairo Tracon. You are coming in clear. Go ahead.”

“Cairo, this airplane is under the control of the Avengers of the Islamic Brotherhood. The lives of the hostages are meaningless. They will live or die depending on the actions of the godless American government. We have no hatred of the oppressed peoples who must live in the homeland of the Great Satan, but we can not ignore the deeds of their leaders. Our brothers have been killed by the soldiers of the Great Satan and their Zionist lackeys for too many years. The victims of this unwarranted barbarism have been unable to defend themselves. They have no weapons. But now they do in us. The Americans will be made to pay. If they do not cooperate, the hostages will die. In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful, tell the Americans we are coming.” The air went dead.

Cairo tried to raise the aircraft several times, unsuccessfully.

Polhill’s face was contorted in thought. “Com, what’d you hear?”

The redheaded lieutenant brought the boom mike closer to his lips. “He sounded pissed — just like a pilot would.”

“Pilots don’t call their rides ‘airplanes’; it’s ‘aircraft.’ But you’re right, he was not a happy camper having to read that.” The commander noted the time and other observations of the message. “Hijacked out of Athens, a crackpot message…another A-rab terrorist.”

“Aye on that, sir.” The lieutenant leaned way back in his seat. There was another damn animal playing a game with the lives of hundreds of people, and not a thing they could do about it.

“Go ahead and get that off,” Polhill ordered. Within a minute the message was encrypted and sent by burst transmission up twenty-three thousand miles to a Navy communication satellite which would relay the message, condensed to less than half a second’s duration, back down to a Pentagon receiving station. Polhill wasn’t brass, nor did he have much intelligence experience behind him. He could tell, however, that this situation was probably going to develop into a first-class pain in the ass.

“Aircraft sets!” Radar shouted. At petty officer’s rank he was the junior member of the five-man crew. “I’ve got two…yeah, two sets at one-seven-nine. Search stuff. Wait…two more!”

The commander turned to his own screen, which duplicated the radar officer’s readout. The emissions gave only a bearing to their platforms — aircraft in this case — but little else. “Radar, do you have them on active?”

“Negative, sir,” Radar answered, adjusting his controls for sensitivity. “They’ve got to be on the deck. Checking bands now. Jesus! Their strength just came way up. They must be burning like there ain’t no…Got ‘em!”

“Plot!”

“Two…three…four. All of ‘em!”

“True bearings only, Radar.” Polhill switched his radio selector to the Vinson’s CAG frequency. “Rowboat, this is Hammer Two-Seven. I have four bandits. Stand by.” Four obviously military aircraft popping out of nowhere weren’t considered even remotely friendly.

The radar officer scribbled furiously on his console’s notebook. “Sir, I have Bandit One, two MiG-31s it looks like, bearing one-five-zero; speed nine-zero-zero; course zero-zero-zero. Bandit Two, looks like Foxhound emissions, too, bearing one-four-nine; speed nine-zero-zero; course — shit! — three-five-zero; distance one-three-zero miles.”

“Rowboat, I have four Libyan MiG-31s inbound. Two on me, two on the big bird.” He switched all his channel selectors to open. “Com, get the Tomcats on Bandit One. They’re heading for the 747.” The com officer acknowledged the order and sent the F-14s flying.

“Hammer Two-Seven, this is Rowboat. Two ‘Cats are on the way, and the ready-fives will be up in two.”

“Roger, Rowboat.” The commander saw that the two Tomcats nearest him were now racing at full afterburning speed directly at the two MiG-31 Foxhound interceptors directed against Flight 422. The other two just shot from the carrier were gaining altitude and speed as they moved to intercept the other pair of MiGs. It was not a comfortable feeling knowing that the F-14s assigned to protect him were going to cover another aircraft — a civilian one — while Libyan Foxhounds with their Amos air-to-air missiles were coming right at him. But he had no choice. He had to keep them off that airliner. Lord knew what they’d do.

“Sir, CIC designates our ‘Cats as Viper One, the new ‘Cats as Viper Two,” Com reported.

“Radar, distance to Bandit Two.”

“Sir, one-one-five miles to us; eight-two miles to Viper One.”

It was too damn close. The Amos missiles had a range of sixty miles, roughly forty miles less than the Phoenix missiles on the F-14s, and weren’t as accurate. Russian- trained pilots didn’t have a habit of popping missiles off at extreme ranges, or so the intel boys said. The Tomcats weren’t likely to fire their Phoenixes at similar ranges either. It wouldn’t matter much, though, with the MiGs moving at a mile every four seconds. Practical range would come in under two minutes. And Viper One. Polhill knew he’d have to order them to literally fly by the MiGs to get to Bandit One. The passing distance would be under ten miles. With a closing speed of over twenty-one hundred knots, the seconds of indecision were a precious commodity, one he couldn’t afford to waste.

“Com, order Viper One to paint Bandit Two.”

“Aye, sir.”

The commander gave his neck a quick roll to shake some of the tension. He was hoping that the Libyans racing toward him would find it unsettling to hear their radar-warning receivers go off as the F- 14s “painted” them with their powerful AWG-9 fire control radars. The same tactic had worked in most other confrontations with Qaddafi’s fighters.

“Com, does Viper One have Bandit Two?”

“That’s an affirm, sir. They have lock-ons. Viper One leader reports a red light on one of his Phoenixes.”

That meant they had only three of the long-range Phoenixes and eight of the shorter-range Sparrows between them.

“Rowboat, this is Hammer Two-Seven… request permission to order weapons-free rules of engagement to Viper One.” The CAG didn’t need to be told who the targets might be. He could see the same radar picture via data link that the Hawkeye was privy to.

“Permission granted.”

“Com, send it.”

The message was relayed to the Tomcats. They now had the authority to fire if they perceived a threat to be real. It was an order with a great deal of latitude. Polhill had been in the Navy for going on twenty-three years, and he knew fighter jocks; they were cocky, and arrogant, and above all, disciplined. Their job was to protect the Hawkeye and, by the nature of the mission, the 747. Two MiGs aimed directly at the radar aircraft could only be perceived as one thing: a threat. It wouldn’t be long.

“Sir, target… uh, the target is turning. Coming south.” The radar officer leaned closer to his screen. “Around. There. Steadying.” It was a few seconds before the call-out continued. “New course is one-seven-five… no. Still turning. Make that one-eight-zero. He must’ve hauled that baby over on her wingtips to turn that fast.”

“Radar, what’s Bandit One doing?”

“Slowing. Same course, and speed’s down to five-zero- zero knots. Distance to the 747 is nine-zero-miles.”

“Hmm,” Polhill grunted. Setting up a shot, maybe?

“Viper Two is six minutes out,” Com said. “Whoa! Fox three! Fox three! I have two fox threes. Viper one just fired.” Two Phoenixes—‘fox threes’—were on their way.

“There go—” Radar’s words stopped abruptly. “Bandit Two is firing! I’ve got two missiles inbound! Looks like they’re going for the ‘Cats.”

Smart. Polhill had seen this before. The MiGs were gambling that the Phoenixes’ own guidance radars hadn’t picked them up on active yet, and that the Tomcats would turn away to avoid the missiles targeted on them. That would take away the beam of radiated energy painting the target and cause the Phoenixes to miss. It was a gutsy move.

But the Tomcat drivers were no stranger to the ploy either, and with their defensive jamming systems on, they slowed to four hundred knots and watched their missiles streak toward Bandit Two.

“Viper One, shut down! Disengage!”

What? The radar officer turned to the commander, who returned his quizzical look. Viper One was already heeding the order from the CAG aboard the Vinson. The two F-14s rolled into a tight right, diving turn and shut down their fire control radars, coming around a full three hundred and sixty degrees to face the MiGs again. They were both visible on the Tomcats’ search radars, and to the Hawkeye, heading on a reciprocal course back to Benghazi.

Viper Two took up station thirty miles to the east of Hammer Two Seven, while Viper One remained at its present location to track the retreating MiGs. The weapons officer aboard the Tomcat with a remaining good Phoenix kept his finger on the radar transmit switch, ready to power up the AWG-9 if need be.

Aboard Hammer Two-Seven Commander Polhill questioned the order from the CAG. The Tomcats had two certain kills, courtesy of the overly confident Libyan pilots. Why order them off? It was a clear case of provocation. Hell, MiG-31 Foxhounds closing at nine hundred knots didn’t warrant just a ‘hello.’

“Sir, look.” Radar was pointing to his display.

Polhill took the suggestion. His heart stopped pounding. Directing planes in battle was stressful. An airborne controller was not at all removed from the fight: He was an integral part of it. Missiles streaking toward one of his aircraft might just as well have been aimed at him. Looking at the screen, however, Polhill brought his mind back to the here and now, and an answer to his questioning was apparent. The CAG had the luxury of watching Bandit One as the near battle erupted around the Hawkeye. Bandit One’s two MiGs had formed up on the 747, one mile off of each wing, and were escorting it toward the Libyan coast at four hundred knots.

It never had been necessary to send his Tomcats to protect the hijacked aircraft, the commander realized. Flight 422 was not an intruder…it was a guest.

“Good, thank you.” The chief of staff hung up the phone. “Bud, Meyerson just arrived.”

The NSA poured himself a cup of coffee. Gonzales waved off the offer. The cups were white stoneware mugs with the presidential seal emblazoned on opposite sides. The hot liquid felt good as Bud wrapped both hands around the mug. “It’s cold in here.”

Gonzales joined Bud, taking one of the seats around the antique coffee table. It sat near the Oval Office fireplace and closer to the president’s desk than the main door. “Mary said the building engineer is going to check on the AC in the morning.” He laughed. “The real morning.”

Really. Bud sipped his cup of caffeine. It was giving him the necessary jolt. He hadn’t wanted to wake the president, hoping that the NSC could get things under control. That wasn’t to be. The report from the Sixth Fleet required that, the need for sleep notwithstanding, he be roused.

“It’s amazing, Bud,” the COS began. “Two days ago we were really only functionaries. Second-string. Look at us now.” His voice trailed off in a melancholic tone. “Damned if I ever wanted to move up this way.”

The Oval Office was a lonely place. There were two men in the room, but each felt alone in many ways. It was an aura of solitude. Bud decided he wouldn’t trade places with the man for anything.

“What do you think’s up?”

Gonzales shrugged, running a hand over his quickly shaven face. “I don’t know, and he may not know, but he sure as hell is going to want a good estimate of what’s happening.”

What was happening? It was Bud’s question of the day.

He had at his disposal every military and civilian intelligence service, their analysts, and all the technological gadgetry available to them. They would already be working to identify the perpetrators and their intentions. But it was he who would have to make an intelligent assessment of the information and present recommendations to the president. It was the challenge he wanted, though a little more time to settle into the job before having this dumped on him would have been welcome.

Gonzales heard the clock’s minute hand click forward. It was that quiet. The president would be down any minute.

Both men rose as the door opened. It was a new reflex.

“Bud. Ellis.” The president wore a gray sweat suit and dirty white tennis shoes. The Secret Service hadn’t given him much time to dress. He took a seat across from his advisers. “What do we have?”

Bud pushed the mug away from the edge of the table and brought both hands together. “Mr. President, I’ve called in the NSC. They’re assembled in the situation room and the deputies group is also working. About an hour and a half ago an American carrier passenger flight, numbered 422, was hijacked out of Athens. Then, not very long ago, some of our naval aircraft tracking the jet near the North African coast had a confrontation with several Libyan fighters.”

The president was instantly awake. “Were there any casualties?”

“No, thankfully.” Bud wished he had written a brief, but there hadn’t been time. “There was fire exchanged, but the commander on the Vinson—that was the carrier involved — ordered his fighters to disengage.”

“Why?”

“Flight 422 was in the middle of the whole thing. Our fighters were trying to protect it as the Libyans approached in two groups. Our pilots believed the fighters were going to attack the 747, and their own command aircraft, so they fired. The Libyans returned fire.”

“And there were no casualties?” The president was a bit perplexed, and his face showed it.

“None. While the action was taking place the hijacked aircraft made a turn and headed toward the Libyan coast.”

“Could he have been maneuvering to avoid fire, or a missile?” the president asked.

Bud shook his head. “There were no missiles directed at the 747, and they wouldn’t have known if there were; commercial aircraft don’t carry the types of sensors that would indicate if they were targeted, and the Libyans were well out of their visual range.”

“My God,” the president said. “How many people on board?”

“Over three hundred,” Bud answered.

“Including the crew,” Gonzales added.

The president was silent for a moment. “Am I reading this the way it sounds?”

“I’m afraid so,” Bud affirmed. He couldn’t read the president’s mind, but the man was smart. “The aircraft made no radio calls indicating a course change, nor did it receive any; our command aircraft would have detected that. Plus, the two Libyan fighters that appeared to be in a position to attack flight 422 formed up to escort it.” Bud paused. “You can understand why the air group commander called off our fighters.”

“I can now.” The president was visibly upset. His mouth formed into a pout of seriousness. “So, Colonel Qaddafi has decided to become involved.”

“In a very large way, sir,” Bud added.

“The good colonel didn’t hold to his promises very long, did he? Well, we’ve got two incidents to deal with now.” The president made a point to keep the two happenings separate, though his mind was putting that which was obvious together. “I can’t keep Nate here. We need him over in Britain. They’re pretty pissed off, I understand. Not at us, just in general. He can do a lot to keep things calm. Bud, you’ll have to chair the NSC on this, and I want to be kept up-to-date. Every four hours, and more if you think it’s warranted.” He turned to his COS. “I remember the media circus some of the past hijackings have generated. You talk to Herman and set some guidelines for press contact on this. It could get messy. That’s just a feeling.

“Bud, what have we done so far?”

“Delta has been activated to start preparations for any contingency. The necessary agencies are working on why, how, and who. That’s the tough stuff to figure out in this kind of situation. After the council takes a look at it we may have more, but for now…” Bud threw his hands apart.

“I don’t like the fact that these people always seem to be controlling us,” the president said. “We’re always reacting. And with the rest going on… So, an American aircraft is going to be landing in Libya. When?”

“About thirty minutes,” Bud replied.

The chief executive sat back into a thinking pose with one finger tracing circles on his chin. “This will not turn into another, flight 847,” he said, referring to the seventeen-day ordeal on the ground in Beirut.

Bud had one final thing to inform the president of. “Sir, there was a message from the aircraft just before the confrontation with the fighters.”

“We can’t take everything they say as truthful, sir,” the COS pointed out.

The president took his friend’s words, then looked back to Bud. “What was said?”

“They said they’re coming here.”

“Here?”

The NSA nodded. “To America.”

The coast was approaching fast. Mohammed Hadad crouched behind and between the pilots, his hand resting on the top of the arrogant copilot’s seat back. The man was nervous. Every few seconds he would cock his eyes to the left to see the trigger switch just four inches away. Hadad sensed more than saw this. Soon this man would be more frightened.

“You are a soldier,” Hadad stated. The barrel of his Uzi rested on the co-pilot’s shoulder.

Buzz’s jaw muscles spasmed at the tone. Fuck you! “Marine,” he said softly.

“Marine…” Hadad smiled, his head nodding. “Were you in Beirut, Marine? Did you murder the children of Beirut, Marine?”

Buzz tried to ignore the taunting, unsuccessfully, and the rising burning sensation in his neck tingled on the surface as hot met cold. Raghead asshole! He would have bitten his lip to control the anger…no, hatred welling up in him, but that would have given something away to the pirate. Anyway, snapping his neck would have been a better use of adrenaline.

“You.” Hadad stepped back to his seat. “You do not know or care what happens to the many children of those you oppress…do you?” There was no answer. “You will know. You will know.”

Captain Hendrickson tried to block out the conversation. He knew that Buzz would kill this guy given the chance. He wanted to smile, but resisted when Buzz practically prayed the word Marine in response to the hijacker’s verbal jab. It was a fitting answer. His first officer was a gung ho jarhead if ever there was one. He had probably eaten guts and farted bullets at one time in his life. Marines did that for fun, he had heard.

As the Clipper Atlantic Maiden neared the coast the captain increased power in the four big engines. The warming air above the desert floor was thinner than that over the water and thus required more thrust from the turbofans to maintain lift A slight pull back on the control column added a little more nose-up attitude to the aircraft, and additional upward force. There was an immediate rise in the whine of the engines as their RPMs increased.

They were going to land. Captain Hendrickson had the stick, leaving Buzz to handle the minor duties required to set the huge aircraft down. The first officer keyed his mike to raise the tower.

Hadad jumped forward, striking Buzz with the Uzi’s barrel behind the left ear. A shallow gouge opened and filled with blood.

“No radio!”

Buzz’s hand came down bloodied from the left side of his face. He felt a cool trickle of blood on his neck. “You fucking—”

“Buzz!” The captain reached across the center console, grabbing his co-pilot. “Another time.” His eyes bored into those in the seat opposite him, into those of his friend. Buzz was more than his first officer. They had flown together too many times over the years to be just co-workers. “We have to fly her, Buzz. Another time. Okay? Another time.”

Hadad pulled back and smiled. “Listen to your cap-tan, Number Two. He is wise with his words.” But there will not be another time.

The old Marine swallowed his contempt and again wiped his reddened ear and neck. Rivulets of blood ran down and stained his collar a dark crimson. He shifted his stare to the pirate, whose face was lit with an unnatural glow from the sunlight filtering through the thick windscreen. He was half turned, facing the grinning pirate, whose eyes showed no fear, only power: the power that came with the gun and a planeload of unarmed innocents.

“If you wish to be first to die, Number Two, that would please me.” The smile left Hadad’s face.

Buzz turned back to the front and the attention of the aircraft. He scanned the instruments — they were all nominal. The captain was right. Now was the time to fly, to keep the Maiden flying. There would be another time. He touched his ear again. The blood flow seemed to be minor and slowing as clots formed at the source. At the same instant the Clipper Atlantic Maiden crossed the coastline.

Michael Alton held his wife’s hand as it lay across the armrest and touched his knee. Sandra’s fingers ran gentle, yet nervous figure eights on his jeans. He could sense her fear, though she would not show it. They had both seen the man, but Michael was one of the few passengers to recognize what he was carrying pressed against his side as a weapon. The couple looked at each other incredulously after the captain announced that they had been hijacked. This sort of thing happened only on the news, or in the movies — not to them.

Several of the flight attendants were doing their best to calm the upset passengers. The number of them was amazingly small. Michael figured it was because most people, like him, half believed it would all just suddenly end, like a dream when one wakes up. Probably the most unsettling thing was the very young stewardess who was beyond hysterical. Two of her co-workers had escorted her down from the upper deck with a group of passengers just before the captain’s announcement. One of them had her in the forward galley.

The other stood at the base of the stairs, glancing at the passengers with a feeble smile at times, but mostly her eyes were fixed upward.

Michael felt his wife squeeze his fingers in her palm. Sandy was his life, his reason for living. Their children were precious and more important to him than anything, except her. At least they were home safe with her parents. If they didn’t make it home the kids would be taken care of. If they did make it out of this, Michael swore that he would listen to his wife the next time they planned a vacation. She had wanted to go to Maui.

The aircraft circled once at his direction and was now entering the empty landing pattern for a visual approach. Hadad checked his watch. It would be happening now, he knew, and the smile again came to his face.

The noise from the traffic two blocks away was momentarily masked by the sharp crack of an explosion. There was little flash visible on Winslow — the blast originated farther back in the second-floor flat — but the sound and visible effect at the front of the three-story stone-faced structure were pronounced. Shards of wood, stone, and glass rained down upon the empty street and sidewalk. A groaning came from the building as the initial roar of the blast subsided. The horizontal support members between the first and second, and second and third, floors were breached, and the upper stories settled downward, pushing the ground floor into the basement. Surprisingly, there was no fire following the collapse, only a panicked scream from someone inside the devastated structure.

Less than four hundred meters away a young Irishman dialed the Scotland Yard operator and delivered a message that he recited verbatim from memory. The operator passed the information to the inspector on duty at the Domestic Terrorism desk. He received it at the same time the first calls came in on the explosion. He immediately notified the explosive ordnance detail and left for number 316 Chatham, where the caller said another bomb would be found.