Primary Target

40

“There’s a good-sized one,” Jackie announced as she I pointed to a large yacht straight ahead of the Maule. “It looks like the same kind of yacht.”

Scott lowered the nose and descended toward the gleaming ship. From the wake the yacht was leaving, it was making good speed.

“Only one problem,” Dalton said as they rapidly closed on the ship. “They don’t have a helicopter onboard, and there isn’t a name on the stern.”

Jackie raised the binoculars and closely studied the yacht. “It looks exactly the same, except for the blue canopy over the afterdeck.”

Scott leveled off at 200 feet. “And the inflatable boat where the helicopter had been on the other ship.”

“Let’s do a three-sixty,” Jackie suggested as she reached for the camera. “That’s an exact replica of the other yacht.”

“Coincidence?”

“Who knows?”

Abeam the yacht, Scott initiated a climbing turn to circle the craft. Why are they steaming so fast?

“No name on the stern,” Jackie said mechanically as they banked over the ship. “And no name on either side of the upper deck. What does that tell you?”

“Well, it might be on a delivery cruise to its owner.”

“Headed northward?” she asked as she snapped photos of the yacht.

“It could be a West Coast boat,” he advised as he allowed the Maule’s nose to drop toward the water. “That’s why they have that ditch that runs through Panama.”

Checking the number of exposures left in the camera, Jackie turned and glanced at the yacht. “Humor me and make a low, slow pass parallel to the stern.”

Scott nodded and rolled into a tight, descending turn. “If Ski Cat wasn’t telling the truth, we could be chasing a phantom.”

Jackie gave him a questioning look. “Even if he was telling the truth, the captain could have taken it out in the Gulf.”

“Or,” Scott suggested as the floatplane skimmed low over the water, “they could’ve headed toward Cuba or straight out to the Bahamas. Who knows?”

After three quick photos, Jackie leaned back in her seat. “Scott, this just doesn’t feel right. Too many coincidences.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Dalton pointed the Maule toward Key Largo. “If we don’t see anything between here and the Ocean Reef Club, we’ll contact Hartwell.”

A restlessness settled over Jackie as she scanned the horizon. “They have to be out here somewhere.”

“On second thought,” Scott began slowly, “what we have here is a yacht full of terrorists who, oh-by-the-way, just happen to have a nuclear bomb onboard.”

“I believe you have the picture.”

He turned to her and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, it’s time to get the Coast Guard and Navy involved in the search.”

For a few seconds she gazed at him, then reached for the satellite phone. “The sooner, the better,” Jackie declared as she punched in Hartwell’s number.

After the Maule made the low pass and turned toward Key Largo, Massoud Ramazani slowly let out his breath and said a prayer to Allahu. Besides the wet paint running down the stern, the helicopter had barely been out of sight when the floatplane suddenly appeared. Still shaking from the close call, Ramazani turned to the inexperienced captain. “Put in at Plantation Key.”

The Revolutionary Guardsman made a small course correction. “Do you want me to contact the helicopter pilot?”

“No!” Ramazani blurted with pent-up anger. You fool! “He’s not coming back to the ship!”

The neophyte skipper hunkered down and paid strict attention to his boat handling. He and his apprentice first mate were still smarting from scraping the hull when they hurriedly cast off from the dock.

After gathering the crew on the bridge, Ramazani laid out his plan. “As soon as we get into port, we’ll paint another name on the stern, and we’ll paint the deck blue. We’ll make all the cosmetic changes we can to the ship this afternoon, and get under way as soon as the sun goes down.”

One by one the Maule flew over dozens of yachts and fishing boats, none of which compared with the motoryacht Scott and Jackie were searching for. As they approached the Ocean Reef Club, it was obvious that the terrorists had won the first round.

Hartwell had made arrangements to have a Bell LongRanger delivered to them at the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport. In addition to Jackie and Scott’s efforts, the search for the yacht now included the combined assets of the military and Coast Guard.

Uncomfortable with the fine spray of aviation fuel venting over the wing, Jackie leaned back in her seat. “Let’s get this thing on the ground and have a professional photographer look at our negatives.”

“No argument from me,” he stated emphatically. “I’m just wondering if they went out far enough to be over the horizon.”

“That’s a possibility.”

Khaliq Farkas brought the Citation 1/SP to a smooth halt on the grass runway and taxied to the hangar. As the engines quietly spooled down, two men hooked the small utility tractor to the jet and quickly pushed it backward into the hangar.

When Farkas and Hamed Yahyavi stepped out of the Citation, Yahyavi went straight to the rest room while Farkas issued the order to paint the corporate jet a different color and change the side number. Afterward he paused to inspect the A-4 Skyhawk. Sporting two Sidewinder air-to-air heat-seeking missiles, the attack jet was also loaded with a full complement of twenty-millimeter cannon shells. Farkas was checking the missiles when one of the cell members rushed into the hangar to report that Bassam Shakhar was on the satellite-phone.

When Farkas lifted the receiver, Shakhar grandly congratulated the terrorist on the downing of Air Force One, then sharply chastised Farkas for not killing the president. Shakhar reported that Macklin survived the crash landing, then went on to loudly reiterate the specific goals he had set forth.

“The entire operation,” Shakhar said impatiently, “is centered around killing Macklin. Creating chaos and panic throughout the U.S. ranks a close second on my list of priorities, but killing Macklin is your primary responsibility. The president is your primary target,” he said angrily. “Do you understand?”

Not one to take a dressing-down from anyone, Farkas did a slow burn. “My record speaks for itself,” he said curtly.

“Your record has a blemish,” Shakhar loudly retorted. “You are supposed to be the best, but I have my doubts.”

Farkas gripped the phone so tightly that his hand trembled.

“Our goal,” Shakhar angrily blurted, “is to kill Macklin and cripple the Americans until the last U.S. soldier is out of the Middle East.”

“Islam will prevail,” Farkas said loudly and firmly. “The next event is about to start.”