Primary Target

34

Khaliq Farkas attached a small suction plunger to the lower left side of the window and skillfully used a glasscutter to extract an eight-inch square of glass. He repeated the same steps on the right side of the glass, then stepped back to admire his work and the view. Looking over the top of a hotel and Interstate 85—even with the restriction of low clouds and fog — he had a bird’s-eye view of the sprawling international airport. He estimated that he was approximately one mile from the west end of the south runways.

Feeling more confident by the minute, he unpacked a spiral notebook, two ballpoint pens, and the portable radio scanners. He cautiously surveyed the hotel grounds, searching for anyone who might be looking up at the building. Most everyone entering or leaving the high-rise hotel was looking at the pavement in an attempt to dodge the multitude of water puddles.

Across the room, Hamed Yahyavi unfolded the long radio antennas and attached the mass of tangled cables to the aircraft radios, then carefully divided the antennas between the two openings in the window.

The weather was still rotten, but the light rain had abated for the moment. The fog and low visibility were continuing to cause flight delays, but air traffic was flowing reasonably well now that the early-morning rush hour was over. Not quite ideal conditions for what he wanted to achieve, but good enough to take a chance on inflicting mass casualties and creating fear about where and when an attack might occur next.

Checking the current United States Government Enroute Low Altitude navigation charts, Farkas tuned in the frequency for the airport arrival ATIS — the automatic terminal information service. He immediately learned that Hartsfield/Atlanta International was using both Runways 8 Left and 9 Right for landing aircraft. The reported weather during the past hour was slightly above the minimum ceiling and visibility needed to execute the standard Instrument Landing System precision approaches to the two runways.

Switching the radio to the ATIS frequency for departing aircraft, he was informed that outbound flights were using Runways 8 Right and 9 Left.

Farkas switched one of the radios to eavesdrop on the Atlanta Control Tower frequency for the runways on the north side of the airport—8L-26R and 8R-26L. He then tuned a second radio to monitor the tower operator controlling the runways on the south side of the field—9L-27R and 9R-27L.

Checking his wristwatch, he calculated where Air Force One would be at the present time. The gleaming wide-body jet would most probably still be cruising at 35,000 feet, communicating with a high-altitude en route air traffic controller. According to his estimate, the specially configured Boeing 747 would commence its descent in approximately twenty minutes.

He tuned the remaining radios to keep track of clearance delivery, both ground-control frequencies, departure control, and various approach-control frequencies, including the feeder and final radar controllers. The last VHF transceiver was set to 121.5—the general aviation emergency frequency guarded by most civilian control towers, radar facilities, and flight service stations, while a UHF radio was tuned to 243.0—the military emergency “guard” frequency. The other UHF radios were tuned to Hartsfield approach, tower, ground, and departure control.

Farkas monitored the tower frequency and watched the string of aircraft taking off while he listened to the approach controllers handling the inbound flights. This allowed him to get a feel for the flow of air traffic so he could time his actions to cause the most significant consequences.

He drew a square in the center of a fresh page in the notebook and began writing the flight numbers down adjacent to where they were located in relation to the airport.

Mentally placing himself in the control tower at the center of the bustling airport, he visualized what was transpiring in the dark clouds high above the sprawling city. When an airliner approached Atlanta, an en route controller in the Atlanta Air Route Traffic Control Center “handed off” the flight to a feeder controller in the terminal radar-control facility.

The feeder controller had the responsibility of sequencing air traffic into a smooth flow before he turned the airplanes over to the final controller. The final controller’s job entailed spacing aircraft for the final approach to the airport before he “handed” the flights to the local controller or to the control tower.

From studying the flow of air traffic at Hartsfield, Farkas knew the Atlanta north feeder was controlling two narrow corridors of inbound traffic. One route was devoted to traffic arriving from the northeast, while the other busy corridor handled inbounds from the northwest. Both routes converged north of Atlanta International, where the final controller took control of the flights.

“What a great setup,” Farkas said as he checked his watch. “We just have to be patient, and think clearly.”

“You’re the pilot,” Yahyavi observed with an amused smile. “I’ll take care of the scanners.”

“FBI?” Scott whispered as Jackie helped him tie the boat’s severed anchor line to the stern of the Boston Whaler. “Was that a moment of panic, or are you really with the Bureau?”

“It just came out,” Jackie admitted, her voice barely audible. “I’m not keeping anything from you.”

Scott smiled widely, then winked. “That’s good, because I was beginning to have my doubts.”

“Well, rest easy.”

“Are you about ready, Ski Cat?” Dalton asked as he turned to the militant sitting on the dock.

The man’s hands were tied behind his back and his ankles were tied together. The end of the anchor line was securely fastened around and through his bound ankles. Scott cinched the man’s life jacket as tight as he could.

“I’m telling you,” the militant pleaded, “I don’t know anything.”

“You don’t sound very convincing,” Scott said lightly. “You could sure save us a lot of time and energy, and save yourself some — how should I phrase this? — real discomfort.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” the man cried out as his eyes burned from the salty perspiration.

“Then make something up, and it better be good.”

A seasoned water-skier, Dalton jumped into the boat and started the powerful Evinrude outboard.

“Keep an eye on things,” he said to Jackie, then turned his attention to the pleading man. “I’m gonna take out some slack, then I’ll pop you off the dock and have you flying high in no time.”

“No! Please don’t do this!”

“Relax and enjoy the ride.”

Without warning, Scott firewalled the throttle and braced himself. The Boston Whaler lunged out of the water and snatched the terrified man off the dock. He plunged into the emerald waters and disappeared for a few seconds, then popped to the surface as the boat rapidly accelerated.

Reaching top speed, Scott made a sweeping left turn as the man violently bounced along the surface of the water, twisting and spinning wildly over the edge of the wake on the outside of the turn. Nearing the dock, Dalton tightened the turn and flung the man out into smooth water.

“Hang in there, guy!”

Skipping across the surface like a flat stone, the man accelerated to a speed that was faster than the speed of the boat. When the militant’s head was skirting the edge of the pier, Scott eased the power back and spun the Whaler toward the desperate terrorist.

Jackie grabbed a boat hook and snared the sputtering man’s life jacket, holding his head above water until Scott roared up in the boat.

“Hey, you’re doin’ great!”

Panic-stricken, the terrorist gasped for air, then spewed vomit and seawater down his life jacket. “I — please,” he pleaded as his head slid to one side. “I can’t tell you something that—”

“Okay,” Scott interrupted. “You have real potential, guy, no question about it. I’m betting that this time around, you can manage some five-and-six-foot bounces off the water.”

“No!” he begged as he gasped for air. “Please don’t do—”

Dalton interrupted him. “We’re just gonna have to get the speed up a little higher, that’s all.”

“Okay,” the man said, then choked and coughed. “Okay,” he sputtered. “I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Oh, no,” Scott said as he leaned near the militant’s twisted face. “You’ll tell me everything. One lie and you’ll be going for the double whammy — the big one. Got it?”

The man nodded and coughed.

“Where’s the yacht?”

“Headed for the Potomac River.”

Jackie’s eyes widened. “What are they planning to do?”

“Set off a bomb as close to the White House as—”

“What kind of bomb?” Scott interjected.

The man hesitated, then began coughing again.

Scott grabbed him by the life jacket and hauled him halfway out of the water. “Answer me, dammit!”

“A nuclear bomb.”

Jackie and Scott made eye contact.

“Where’s Ramazani?” Dalton asked.

“On the boat.”

“Where’s Farkas?”

“In Atlanta.”

Jackie and Scott shared a startled look before Dalton stared into the man’s frightened eyes.

“Is he planning to harm the president?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Another hesitation.

“Okay,” Scott said evenly as he turned toward the controls. “I’ll make this ride extra special.”

“They are going to do something to his plane.”

“What exactly are they going to do?” Jackie asked.

“I don’t know,” he said with a pleading look on his face. “Farkas was here to pick up a person to go with him to Atlanta. I don’t know what they are planning to do — honest.”

Scott smiled broadly. “Relax, Ski Cat.”

After they hauled the man out of the water and securely tied him to a tree, Jackie motioned Scott aside.

“The other guy died while you were in the boat.”

Dalton glanced at the inert form lying on the ground, then looked around the property. “From the array of antennas here, I’d say these boys have some pretty sophisticated communications gear.”

“We better take it out of service,” Jackie suggested. “Just in case any more of these characters are around.”

They quickly destroyed the communications center and knocked the antennas to the ground.

“Let’s get out of here,” Scott said as he ripped the electric cords out of the generators. “We have to get in touch with Hartwell. The president is expected to be in Atlanta today.”

Jackie nervously glanced at her wristwatch. “Actually, he should be en route right now.”

“Let’s get airborne,” Scott said as he turned and sprinted for the floatplane. “We’ll use the sat-phone.”

Scott started the engine and quickly configured the airplane for takeoff while Jackie frantically tried to contact Hartwell Prost in Washington. After two unsuccessful attempts to get through to his office, she finally heard a ring as the Maule lifted off the water and began climbing. After a delay to interrupt a staff meeting, the conversation with Prost was short and ended abruptly.

“He’s going to contact Air Force One,” she announced as they searched for any sign of the yacht. “I told him about Farkas being in Atlanta, and confirmed that a nuke was on the yacht.”

“What’s his thinking?”

She reached for the binoculars. “He wants us to find the yacht and keep it in sight until the Coast Guard or Navy can intercept it.”

“What about the two guys we left on the island?” Scott asked as he glanced at the mist of fuel spraying over the right wing.

Jackie turned an air vent directly toward her face. “Hartwell’s contacting the FBI. He’s keeping us out of the picture.”

“Good.”

Jackie slowly swept the horizon with the binoculars. “We have to find that yacht.”

“Yeah, mucho pronto,” Scott said as he leveled the plane at 500 feet. “It shouldn’t be too difficult now that we know where they’re headed.”

Morteza Bazargan, the leader of the special action cell on the island, crawled out of the moat and pulled himself up the coral breakwater as the Maule disappeared in the distance. Wet and frightened, he reentered the water and waded across the chest-deep moat, then hurried to check on his two comrades.

“What did you tell them?” he yelled when he found his second in command tied to the tree.

The man mumbled incoherently.

“Speak up!” Bazargan said as he backhanded the man across the face. “You told them about the boat, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” the man said feebly. “They were going to drown me.

Without saying another word, Bazargan untied the traitor from the tree, but left his hands tied behind his back. He yanked him to his feet and shoved him toward the dock.

“No!” the frantic man pleaded as he desperately tried to maintain his balance. “I didn’t tell them anything that—”

Bazargan shoved him off the pier and turned toward the home. He had seen the antennas crash to the ground and he had heard the communications equipment being destroyed. Somehow, Bazargan had to make contact with the ship and warn Massoud Ramazani before the people in the floatplane located Bon Vivant.

Unfortunately for Bazargan, a private pilot flying over the island spotted a bloody body lying on the grounds and another body floating beside the dock. The pilot contacted Miami Air Traffic Control Center and they alerted the Coast Guard. Minutes later a Coast Guard HH-65 Dolphin arrived while Bazargan was changing into dry clothes. The helicopter crew entertained the suspected murderer and drug dealer until the FBI arrived.