Primary Target

30

The handpicked Marine guards assigned to the White House had exchanged their dress uniforms for battle fatigues and machine guns. With the commander in chief a target of embittered militants, the grounds of the White House were being patrolled by two highly trained platoons of Marines. Led by seasoned first lieutenants, the “tough as nails” veterans specialized in counterterrorism.

Inside the White House, Secret Service agents refined their plans to spirit the president from the Oval Office in the event of an attack by terrorists. At the first indication of an assault, an agent would push a panel on a wall adjacent to the president’s rest room, causing a secret door to slide open. A staircase leading down to a brightly lit tunnel provided the president a means of escape to his private elevator, or another exit near an office that had once served as the White House barbershop.

The risk of further conflict with Iran had sent a shudder through the financial capitals of the world. Concern over who would eventually control the Strait of Hormuz had caused oil futures on the Chicago commodities market to triple in value. Reporting the conflict in great detail, the media anchors and pundits were generally lukewarm to President Macklin and his handling of the situation. World reaction to the attack on Iran had been sharply divided, with many nations in the Middle East fearful of a major war erupting in the Gulf region.

The Jockey Club in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel presented a logistical nightmare for the Secret Service, but the president and the first lady insisted on having lunch at least twice a month at the famed power-crowd watering hole. Regardless of the situation in the Persian Gulf, Macklin remained adamant about projecting a calm, relaxed demeanor to the public.

Playing their usual roles in the kitchen and in the dark-paneled dining room, six agents went about their duties dressed as captains, waiters, and busboys. Near the heavy glass door just off the hotel’s small lobby, other agents disguised as high-powered Washington insiders and hotel bell captains watched for any signs of trouble.

Earlier, before the club opened, the restaurant had been thoroughly checked for eavesdropping devices and other intelligence-gathering paraphernalia. Satisfied that the club was sanitized, the Secret Service had given the president the standard spiel about lip-readers. In public, Macklin and his wife generally kept their conversations light and pleasant, especially with respect to sensitive matters that could compromise his administration. Today would not be one of those days.

Seated at Table 14, a cozy corner retreat where a couple could dine and not only see, but be seen, the president and his attractive wife were enjoying a glass of wine with their chicken salad. A shapely brunette a decade younger than her husband, Maria Eden-Macklin sat with her long legs discreetly crossed at the ankles. Self-schooled to project the proper image of a first lady, Maria’s face seldom reflected anything other than a pleasant expression when she was seen in public. Today, however, the retired foreign correspondent was having a difficult time keeping her emotions beneath the surface.

Maria pushed up the elbow-length sleeves of her tailored designer suit, smiled, then leaned closer to the president and whispered in his ear. “May I speak frankly?”

The president returned her smile and sipped his Chardonnay. “You always do,” he said with a chuckle.

She raised her wineglass to conceal her lips. “I don’t think you should press your luck.” She smiled in a faintly autocratic manner. “You should be forthright about the submarine. If it’s missing, have Pete go on television and admit it.”

“Maria,” the president said lightly, “you know this isn’t the time”—he glanced around the room—“or the place to bring up that subject. We’ll discuss it later in private.”

“You have a full schedule until late this evening,” she declared in a quiet, firm voice. “We need to talk about this now, before someone leaks it to the press. Pete needs to be honest about the situation.”

“It isn’t quite that simple.” Macklin maintained a hint of a smile and talked in a hushed voice. “Pete and Les don’t want to unnecessarily alarm the families of the crew, in case Hampton makes contact in the next day or two.”

Briefly, Maria studied her husband. “If something has happened to it, you’re going to come across as deceitful. Remember the Trident that sailed to the wrong station in the Pacific and hid for more than a week?”

“Maria, not now,” he said impatiently.

“It was rigged for quiet,” she hastily continued, “and so deeply submerged that it wasn’t able to send or receive messages?”

“They could receive signals by slow underwater methods.”

Again she raised her wineglass to her lips. “Not if the sender is thousands of miles away.”

“Let’s drop it,” the president insisted.

“For nine days,” she said in a hushed voice, “the United States Navy was missing a Trident nuclear-missile submarine and no one had any idea where it was.”

“Okay, so a mistake was made,” he said with a trace of irritation. “No one likes to admit things like that.”

“What’s more,” she went on, “a shrewd reporter got wind of the story and embarrassed the Navy and the White House. Don’t be deceitful,” she quietly admonished. “You’re the commander in chief.”

Macklin returned a casual wave from the chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. “We’re going to roll the dice,” the president said under his breath. “If it’s just a communications failure, then we’re okay. No one is going to get upset.”

“If it hasn’t been a communications problem,” she suggested, barely moving her lips, “then what?”

The president felt the hard probe of her gaze. “Then I’ll do what I have to do. I respect their advice.”

“Even if they’re wrong?”

“They’re advisers, not prophets.” He sensed her faint recoil and reached for her hand. “I appreciate your concern, you know that.”

She nodded and raised an eyebrow, then gazed around the room while she asked a question. “If you ask Pete to resign, will he do it gracefully?”

“I’m sure he would,” Macklin answered, surprised by the question. “Why do you ask?”

She reached for her napkin and lightly touched the edge of her mouth. “The mood on the Hill is ugly. They’re going to want someone’s head at the hearings.” Maria smiled at two well-heeled socialites as they rose to leave. “They’re going to make it tough for Pete, and probably Les, too. You’ll be next if you don’t shake up the Pentagon and the White House to feed the wolves.”

“Maria,” the president said in a low, even voice as he acknowledged a senior senator. “Try not to frown.”

With a catlike gleam in her eyes, she smiled as if he’d just told her an amusing story, then lowered her voice. “We’ve been humiliated in Iran twice, and this situation has the potential to be a much bigger debacle than Desert One.”

The first lady was referring to the three Marines and five airmen who died in 1980 while attempting to rescue fifty-two American hostages from the Ayatollah Khomeini. The accident happened when a C-130 tanker plane and a helicopter collided in the staging area after a sandstorm and mechanical problems caused the mission to be aborted.

“No one knows that better than I do,” Macklin retorted in a hushed voice as he glanced around the room.

“Now,” she declared with a troubled look, “one of our newest aircraft carriers is being towed to a shipyard, and we can’t account for one of our nuclear submarines. It makes you look incompetent.”

“Maria, please,” the president said a shade defensively.

She calmly ignored him and raised her wineglass. “It’s embarrassing to us as a nation, and the committee is going to hold you personally responsible.”

“They should hold me responsible,” Macklin stated emphatically, and finished the last sip of his wine. Running his fingers back and forth over the red and white tablecloth, the president thought about the members of the Senate Armed Services Committee. To a person, Macklin respected them, but he knew they weren’t going to cut him any slack just because of his strong support for the military.

He studied his wife’s aqua-blue eyes. “Maria, I don’t want you to worry about this situation.”

“I’m not worried about the situation—I’m worried about you,” she declared, and then spoke more softly. “The hearing will be extremely contentious. You know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“It could cost you a second term in office.”

There was a long silence.

“I don’t think so,” Macklin finally said. “They clearly understand that the security of the Persian Gulf is vital to the United States, and to the economic well-being of the world. They also know that things can go wrong during military operations.”

“Like bombing the Chinese embassy in Belgrade,” she said mechanically.

“War isn’t a precise—” Macklin flared, then stopped himself in mid-sentence.

“It’s your reputation that’s on the line,” she said in a hushed voice, “and it’s your future at stake.”

“Maria, the United States is in the Persian Gulf to stay, no question about it. There is no alternative, and the committee knows that. We’re the big fish in the pond.”

“Apparently,” she paused, trying to hide her skepticism, “the top dogs in Baghdad and Tehran didn’t get the word.”

The president stifled the impulse to respond to her remark.

“The major terrorist groups have announced a call to arms,” she said with a vague shrug of her shoulders. “If it were me, I’d try to deflect what happened in the Gulf, and explain what I’d do to keep our country from being held hostage by a bunch of lunatics.”

“That’s precisely what we’re working on,” he asserted, and flashed a quick smile for the sake of the luncheon patrons who occasionally glanced at the first couple. “Now relax and enjoy your lunch.”

“Right,” she murmured. “We’re living in a residence surrounded by concrete barriers and armed men — Marines with real bullets. And, as of yesterday, we have over a dozen men with portable missile launchers on the roof. It’s like being confined to a palace in the middle of some third-rate banana republic.”

Before Macklin could answer, he noticed the Secret Service agents, in unison, cast a glance at the entrance to the Jockey Club. A moment later Fraiser Wyman walked through the door and headed straight for the president’s favorite table.

Macklin felt a sudden flush of adrenaline when he saw the strained look on Wyman’s face. Now what?

“I apologize for interrupting,” Wyman said as all eyes turned toward the president’s table. “I have to have a word with you, sir.”

“Sure,” Macklin said hastily as he signaled the dining-room captain. “We’ll make it a threesome.”

Arrangements were quickly made and Wyman nervously accepted a glass of wine. He had often discussed sensitive matters in the company of the first lady, but he had reservations about speaking openly in the Jockey Club.

“Mr. President,” Wyman said quietly and deliberately, “we need to return to the White House as quickly as possible.”

Maria spoke first. “Fraiser, take a couple of minutes to enjoy your wine, then leave as unobtrusively as possible. We’ll be along in a few minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a concerned look.

“And smile,” she asserted, then gave a nod to a Secret Service agent dressed as a waiter. He slipped into the kitchen to send the signal that the president would be leaving earlier than planned.

When the first couple sat down in the living room of their private quarters, the president noticed Wyman’s new diamond-encrusted Rolex. Macklin gave him a half smile. Somehow, I have to take him out of the loop until Sandra Hatcher and the FBI finish their investigation.

“I know you don’t have good news,” the president grumbled, “so let’s have it straight out.”

“Sir, they — the Navy — found some debris from the Hampton.”

The president’s face went slack before he promptly regained his composure. “When?”

“About forty-five minutes ago.”

“What happened?”

“It was sunk — probably by Iran.”

“Where?”

“Very close to where they launched the Tomahawks.”

“They’re positive the debris is from Hampton?” Maria asked with only a trace of her usual smile.

“Positive. Something blew the sub apart.”

Macklin shuddered. “Any survivors?”

“No, sir.”

Maria gave the president an anxious glance. “Who knows about this?”

“I don’t know,” Wyman confessed, and faced the president. “Sir, we can’t sit on this very long. I strongly recommend you go on television and announce what’s happened, before the networks break the story.”

“Fraiser’s right,” Maria said firmly. “It isn’t good news, but it comes straight from you, before the media can put you on the defensive. Get the bad news out front, then slowly shift the subject to your Cornerstone Summit in Atlanta. It’s a major race-relations initiative, and it’s very important to America’s future. Use it to dilute the controversy about the Gulf, then get on to a message with familiar themes.”

“I agree,” Wyman hastily added. “It’ll help take the focus off the negatives and move the agenda to the positive side — to Atlanta. And, it may move us up in the polls.”

Macklin stared at the floor, not really seeing it. I have to guide this with a steady hand. “Get the Oval Office ready,” he ordered coldly, then glanced at Fraiser’s shiny Rolex President.

Wyman caught Macklin’s eye. “It’s ready sir.”

Wearing a uniform adorned with wings and four gold stripes, Khaliq Farkas carefully reviewed the approach procedures for the William B. Hartsfield Atlanta International Airport. This was the last leg of his long day, having dropped portable antiaircraft missiles and terrorist units in other cities.

Drowsy from the afternoon sun warming the cockpit, Farkas yawned, then finished the water in his plastic bottle. The flight from the Florida Keys had been smooth and uneventful, and he wanted to keep things that way. He could ill afford mistakes that might draw critical attention from the en route air traffic controllers.

After receiving clearance from Atlanta Center, Farkas eased the Citation I/SP into a gradual descent toward the bustling airport south of Atlanta. Once established in a stabilized descent, he listened to the automatic terminal information service for Hartsfield International. Afterward he buttoned his collar and adjusted his tie, then glanced into the richly upholstered cabin. “Hamed, wake up. We’re almost there.”

“I am awake.” Dressed in a pricey Giorgio Armani suit, Hamed Yahyavi casually opened one eye. “How could I possibly sleep?”

Concerned about flying into a major airport, Farkas looked back a second time. “I want you to help me watch for traffic.”

“I’m on my way.” He shrugged, then unfastened his seat belt.

Yahyavi’s facial features and body were almost perfect, including his manicured fingernails and well-groomed dark hair. Educated in Europe and at the California Institute of Technology, the electrical engineer appeared to be a normal, well-adjusted person. However, behind the sensitive, soft brown eyes and disarming smile was a true psychopath.

Yahyavi made his way to the cockpit, then settled into the right seat. Looking at the sprawling city, Yahyavi smiled when he thought about their plan. He and Farkas had perfected the procedures in Tel Aviv during May of ‘96. The Ben Gurion International Airport was shut down for three hours while they panicked pilots and flight controllers. If they had conducted their experiment at night, or in bad weather, the results could have been even more spectacular.

The weather conditions for the Atlanta operation looked extremely favorable — low ceilings and rain — but no one could predict with absolute certainty whether the atmospheric elements would cooperate on any particular morning. If the aviation forecast came to pass, tomorrow morning would be a memorable one for a number of people.

Initially, Yahyavi had argued against the bold plan, pointing out the high risks involved, and the lack of total control over the outcome of the venture. However, Farkas had convinced him that the scheme could be executed without fear of detection.

Arriving at Hartsfield International, Farkas cleared the active runway and taxied to the Mercury Air Center fixed-base operator. An energetic customer-service representative met the airplane and quickly made arrangements for a rental car to be brought to the corporate jet. When the car arrived, Farkas and Yahyavi carefully loaded their equipment into the Crown Victoria.

Afterward Farkas placed the engine covers on the Pratt & Whitneys, locked the airplane, and then chauffeured his “boss” to the registration parking area at the Atlanta Airport Marriott.

After they checked into separate rooms using the names on their counterfeit credit cards, Farkas closely observed a bellhop while he pushed a baggage cart to the rental car. The talkative teenager loaded the two plywood-and-steel containers on the cart, tossed the other luggage on top of the trunks, then followed Farkas to his room overlooking the airport.