Primary Target

45

Accompanied by Hartwell Prost, Pete Adair, and three unsmiling Secret Service agents, the president rushed out of the mansion and opened his oversized golf umbrella. The steady drizzle was threatening to turn into rain as the afternoon wore on.

Dressed in a long, tan raincoat buttoned snugly around his neck, Macklin gave the drenched reporters a casual wave as the six men approached Marine One. As soon as the president and his party were onboard, the gleaming helicopter climbed away from the landing pad and turned toward Andrews Air Force Base.

With only a few minutes available to catch up on events, Prost and Adair wanted to cover as many topics as possible. Thus far the bombing missions had been a resounding success, with mixed reactions from allies and foes. Washington-based representatives of the countries being bombed were alternately howling in protest and threatening swift retaliation.

“The first lady is safely inside Raven Rock,” Prost advised as he opened his attaché case. Site-R is a major military bunker located inside Raven Rock Mountain in Pennsylvania. A presidential apartment, affectionately known as the Lucy and Desi Suite, is provided for the president and his spouse.

“Good,” Macklin said flatly as he vacantly stared at the steady stream of water flowing across the side window. This is, without a doubt, the worst day I’ve had in my life.

“Are you okay, sir?” Prost queried.

“Yes,” the president said absently as he thought about the gut-wrenching visit he had had with Sandy Hatcher an hour before he left the White House. After experiencing a shocking revelation, Macklin had summoned the director of the FBI to the Oval Office. Without taking his eyes off the rivulet of rain, the president sighed. “I’ll be fine this evening, you can count on it.”

Adair and Prost exchanged concerned looks. Macklin’s face was chalky white and he seemed listless.

With sadness in his eyes, the president turned to Adair. “What happened to the B-2 we lost?”

SecDef was fatigued and it showed in his eyes. “General Chalmers said it collided with a tanker while they were trying to refuel in severe turbulence. From what I understand, the primary tanker developed a fuel leak, so the B-2 continued on to rendezvous with another tanker northeast of the Spratly Islands.

“The bomber was on the verge of flaming out when the pilot attempted to refuel while they were flying through heavy thunderstorms. The B-2 rammed the back of the KC-10, then dropped straight out of sight.”

“What happened to the tanker?” the president asked.

“It was severely damaged,” Adair conceded, trying to hide the yawn he couldn’t suppress. “The pilot managed to land it in one piece in Manila. The boom operator sustained major injuries during the collision, but they expect him to make a full recovery.”

A frown creased Macklin’s forehead. “What about the B-2 crew?”

“We don’t know,” Adair admitted with a pained expression. “The plane went down in the South China Sea, and we haven’t heard anything about the pilots. We have every available resource looking for them.”

Lost in his thoughts, Macklin did not respond.

“We also had a B-52 shot down over Iran.”

Solemn-faced, the president stared out the window. “Any survivors?”

“There was one, sir.”

“Was?”

“They shot him to death while he was descending in his parachute.”

“Sonuvabitch,” Macklin said bitterly, then fell silent.

Prost took advantage of the pause. ‘Two of the terrorists who shot down the civilian 737 are dead, and the third one is in critical condition.”

The president made eye contact.

“Two undercover FBI agents,” Prost went on, “happened to see the missile as it started up. They were in a limo a block away and spotted a Chevy Suburban lurch onto the road and accelerate at full throttle. The agents gave chase and the terrorists fired at them. While our guys were calling for backup, the Iranians ran a red light and got creamed by a dump truck full of scrap iron.”

“How’s the truck driver?” Macklin asked with a dull expression.

“He’s fine, just a few scratches.”

“Good,” the president said, and turned to Adair. “I want to continue to pound the hell out of the primary terrorist targets and military targets you and the Joint Chiefs have selected.”

“Yes, sir.”

The president’s spirit was bouncing back. “Regardless of the cries and threats coming out of the UN and the Middle East, I’m going to stay focused on Iran, Libya, Sudan, Afghanistan, Syria, and the terrorist facilities in the Bekaa Valley until Bassam Shakhar and the rest of his loony pals call off their thugs.”

The veins in Macklin’s neck were protruding. “I want the bombing to go on every day from sundown to sunup, but at random intervals, keep ’em off balance and in shock.”

“I understand, sir,” Adair said as they approached Andrews. “As we speak, B-ls from Dyess are hitting terrorist strongholds, while B-52s from Barksdale and Minot are carpet-bombing the Bekaa Valley.”

“That’ll get their attention,” the president said as the helicopter began a smooth descent toward the air base.

Prost allowed himself a moment of pleasure. “They’re crying foul at the top of their lungs.”

“That’s what I want to hear,” Macklin said with a trace of sarcasm. “As long as we’re being terrorized, the sponsors are going to get pounded into the dirt. I will break them.”

Prost glanced at Adair, then caught the president’s eye. “That’s what you have to do with this kind of mentality. You have to treat them in the only way they understand.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Macklin said resolutely, then changed the subject. “What can you tell me about the yacht and the nuclear bomb?”

“Nothing,” Prost said lightly. “They’re still searching.”

Macklin glanced at his wristwatch, then stared out the window and addressed Adair. “What’s happening in the Gulf?”

“The Roosevelt is conducting cyclic-ops and we haven’t had any serious threats to the battle group.”

“Good.” The president spoke slowly and clearly. “When you return to the White House, I’d like the two of you to have dinner there and wait for me to contact you.”

Taken by total surprise, both men looked at each other, then cautiously turned to the president.

“May I ask what’s on your mind?” Prost asked while Adair hesitated.

“Not yet,” the president said coldly, and continued to stare out the window. “I need time to look into a few things first, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” they said as one.

When Colonel Bolton received the message that Marine One had departed from the White House, he took his place in the left seat of the backup Air Force One. The gates to the sprawling base were closed and all traffic on the terminal ramp was stopped, including airplanes. Fire trucks, rescue personnel, and ambulances were in position.

Three companies of Marines patrolled the perimeter of the air base, and another thirty Marines with portable surface-to-air missiles watched the overcast, rainy skies. Inside the base, double the normal amount of Air Police were on alert. Nothing had been left to chance.

A few minutes later Marine One made a gentle landing and came to an imperceptible stop in the assigned spot close to Air Force One. While the main rotor blades wound down to a halt, Macklin hurriedly finished his business with Adair and Prost, then grabbed his umbrella and walked down the stairway to the parking apron.

A poster-perfect Marine sergeant gave his commander in chief a snappy salute as a Secret Service agent tried to shelter the president from the rain. Macklin, who preferred to carry his own umbrella, waved him away as a half-dozen Air Force brass paid their respects to the president.

After the friendly greetings were exchanged, Macklin and his Secret Service retinue hurried toward Air Force One. The Marine One pilots would wait until the 747 departed before they flew Prost and Adair back to the White House.

Once the president started up the stairway, Colonel Bolton gave the command to start engines.

Thirty seconds after Macklin walked aboard the airplane, a chief master sergeant popped an umbrella open and stepped out of the 747, then hurried down the mobile stairway. The cabin door was closed and the ground crew chief smartly saluted Colonel Bolton a second before Air Force One began rolling toward the runway.

High overhead, four immaculate F/A-18Cs from Marine Fighter Attack Squadron 232, the Corps’ oldest and most decorated fighter squadron, waited for the flying White House. The commanding officer of the Red Devils and three of his most experienced pilots would escort Air Force One on the first segment of its flight to San Francisco.