Primary Target

47

Angered by the short notice about Air Force One, Khaliq Farkas was over ten minutes behind schedule, but the late takeoff was not a showstopper. If he didn’t run into any problems with the weather, or being recognized as an A-4 Skyhawk instead of a Falcon jet, he would have a reasonable chance of completing the most important assignment he had ever undertaken.

The operative who had had the responsibility for notifying Farkas when Air Force One departed Andrews Air Force Base would never have another assignment with the terrorist group. No excuse was acceptable, not even the traffic violation he had been stopped for just before the 747 lifted off the runway. Farkas had killed people for lesser infractions.

Cruising toward Des Moines, Iowa, at 35,000 feet, the single-seat attack jet was carrying two drop tanks, two twenty-millimeter Mk-12 cannons, each with 200 rounds of ordnance, and two Sidewinder, AIM-9 close/medium-range air-to-air missiles.

Mounted on underwing pylons, the heat-seeking weapons were ideal for close stern engagements at high altitude in good visibility. They were less effective at low altitudes, or in cloudy or rainy conditions. Sidewinders also showed a propensity to lock on to the sun if the opponent was pointed at the self-luminous sphere.

The Sidewinder would give a growl when it acquired a target. If it was squarely positioned behind a hot jet exhaust, the growl would become a fierce screech until the aviator fired the missile. Accelerating to two and a half times the speed of sound in 2.2 seconds, the Sidewinder’s range is between two and eleven miles.

The payload of the missile is an annular blast/fragmentation warhead with a passive IR proximity fuse. Known for its accuracy once it locks on, the missile generally tracks straight into the tailpipe of its prey and reduces the jet engine to scrap metal.

Checking his high-altitude navigation chart and the GPS, Farkas decided to wait until Air Force One checked in on the Chicago Center frequency before he requested a return to his “home field” at Columbus, Ohio.

As the seconds ticked off, he became increasingly concerned. Finally, after three minutes, Farkas heard the flying White House check in with Chicago Center. He sucked in a deep breath of cool oxygen. If Air Force One was on a direct course to San Francisco, Farkas knew exactly where it should be in eight minutes. He listened to the radio exchanges as he armed his weapons system, then keyed his radio. “Chicago, Falcon One Hundred Lima Bravo with a request.”

“One Hundred Lima Bravo, Chicago. Say your request.”

“Lima Bravo has developed a radio problem and we would like to change our destination to Port Columbus.”

A short pause followed. “One Hundred Lima Bravo, can you accept a higher altitude?”

“That’s affirm, Lima Bravo.”

Another pause while the en route controller coordinated the change in destination for the troubled corporate jet.

“Falcon One Hundred Lima Bravo is cleared direct to the Port Columbus airport, turn right on course, climb and maintain Bight Level 370.”

“Coming right and climbing to 370, Lima Bravo.”

Thirty miles north-northwest of the A-4 Skyhawk, Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Clem Haskell and his fellow F-15 Eagle pilots were orbiting at 35,000 feet. Each aircraft was armed with AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles, AIM-120 AMRAAM missiles, and over 900 rounds for the M61A1 Vulcan twenty-millimeter cannons. Having recently topped off their fuel tanks from a KC-135 Stratotanker, the pilots quietly waited to accept the responsibility for escorting Air Force One the rest of the way to San Francisco. They would tank again en route.

Based at Mountain Home Air Force Base, Idaho, the pilots from the 366th Wing’s 390th Fighter Squadron were considered to be some of the best fighter jocks in the business.

Colonel “Eddie” Haskell glanced to his right, then keyed his UHF radio for a chat with his wingman, Major Bodie Maxwell Wilson. “Beemer, did you hear the Falcon driver’s request?”

“I shore did,” the former Crimson Tide quarterback said.

“Did it seem a little strange to you?”

“Does a cat have climbin’ gears?”

“I think we better go have a look-see,” Haskell replied hastily, then selected the UHF frequency for the air traffic controller. “Chicago Center, Bulldog One and pups would like to have a look at the Falcon you just cleared direct to Port Columbus.”

“Ah… Bulldog flight,” the controller said as he prepared to change the altitudes and flight paths of other aircraft, “you’re blocked from Flight Level 350 to 430—go for it.”

“Bulldog One, 350 to 430,” Haskell repeated, then glanced at his wingman. “Bulldogs, let’s put the pedal to the metal.”

Farkas heard the radio call from Bulldog One. His mind raced as he calculated how long it would take for the supersonic fighters to catch him. This is going to be close. He inched the throttle forward and started scanning the sky for Air Force One. As always, the adrenaline rush was exhilarating when he approached his prey. He lowered the clear visor from his helmet and locked it in place.

Accelerating through Mach 1.12, Lieutenant Colonel Haskell closely watched his radar screen while he and his three charges rapidly gained on the “questionable” target.

“Chicago Center,” Haskell radioed, “Bulldog One will have a visual on the Falcon in approximately two minutes.”

“Ah, roger, Bulldog.”

Haskell waited a few moments, then keyed his radio. “Center, Bulldog. You might want to steer any traffic in our area away from us.”

“Will do, Bulldog.” The controller studied his radar screen. “Falcon One Hundred Lima Bravo, Chicago Center.”

No answer.

The controller made three more attempts to reach the Falcon, then waited a few seconds before trying again.

“Falcon One Hundred Lima Bravo, if you read center, ident.”

Nothing happened.

Ignoring the radio calls, Khaliq Farkas absently shoved on the throttle in an attempt to coax more speed out of the subsonic A-4. His palms were sweaty and his mouth was dry. Two minutes… where is Air Force One?

As the seconds ticked off, Farkas became more desperate. With little hope left that he would be able to find and attack the 747 before he was identified and blown out of the sky, Farkas pickled his two drop tanks. He waited a few seconds, then keyed his radio.

“Chicago Center, Falcon One Hundred Lima Bravo is having a major electrical problem.”

“Do you wish to declare an emergency?”

“Negative,” Farkas said as he switched off his transponder. “We’ll be off the freq for a minute.”

“For traffic separation,” the controller said hastily, “turn right twenty degrees and report back on.”

“Lima Bravo.”

The A-4 suddenly disappeared from the controller’s radar screen, but Farkas would not be able to hide from the F-15s. They had him locked on radar and they were rapidly merging.

Marine Lieutenant Colonel Gary Darnell, the skipper of the VMFA-232 Red Devils, was monitoring the center frequency and visually searching for the Bulldogs and the corporate jet. What’s the deal with the Falcon?

Darnell had the civilian jet and the four Air Force F-15s on his radar and expected to see them in a matter of seconds.

He glanced ahead at Air Force One and then checked the other F/A-18s in his flight. Although it was difficult to see the gray-colored Hornets against the gray undercast, the other pilots were in their assigned positions.

Concerned about the sudden lack of radio chatter, Darnell decided to get a comm check with his pilots. “Devil check,” he said briskly.

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

Sitting in the left seat of the shiny 747, Colonel Curtis Bolton turned to his copilot, Kirk Upshaw. “Do you have a sense that something strange is going on? That it’s too quiet?”

“Yeah,” he said flatly as both of them searched the sky. “I don’t like the feeling of being in — damn!”

“What?” Bolton said stiffly.

“That’s the same voice — the Falcon pilot’s voice — that was on the tapes in Atlanta! It’s the same guy!”

Bolton’s face turned pale. He was about to contact the Marine flight leader when the radio crackled to life.

“Chicago,” an agitated voice exclaimed, “United Four-Oh-Eight damn near hit a couple of drop tanks — what gives?”

“Did you say drop tanks?”

“That’s affirm.”

A short pause followed before another voice came over the radio. “Ah… we’ll check with the military flights in your area.”

“United Four-Oh-Eight.”

“Bulldogs and Red Devils,” the controller said on UHF, “did anyone kick off their fuel tanks?”

“Negative on the dogs.”

“Ditto the devils.”

“United Four-Oh-Eight,” the controller radioed on VHF, “none of the military planes dropped anything. I don’t know what to tell you, sir.”

“Well, we aren’t hallucinating.”

“I understand, sir. You might want to file a report.”

“I suspect someone on the ground will be doing that fairly soon — if they live through the impact.”

Farkas saw Air Force One at the same instant the radio went wild with everyone trying to talk at once. The 747 and her Marine escorts were going in the opposite direction at 35,000 feet. The Hornets appeared to be spread out from two to three miles behind the big Boeing. Farkas had to make a slight course correction and wait for the flying White House and the F/A-l8s to pass beneath the Skyhawk.

Zooming upward 1,200 feet, Farkas rolled the A-4 inverted and began a split-S maneuver to place himself two miles in trail behind Air Force One.

“Ah, shit,” Bulldog One suddenly blurted as he spotted the bogus corporate jet diving straight down.

“The Falcon is an A-4 doing a split-S!” he said curtly over the Chicago Center frequency. “Bulldogs and Red Devils go tactical!”

The eight fighter pilots switched to a preplanned radio frequency.

“Devil One,” Haskell exclaimed, “the Skyhawk is coming right down on top of you — going to go right through your troops!”

“I got him!” Darnell radioed.

“You’ll have to bag him!” Haskell said, breathing hard. “I can’t get a clean shot from here!”

Caught off guard, Gary Darnell was livid when he looked up and saw the Skyhawk pulling heavy Gs to bottom out of the split-S 400 yards in front of his Hornet. We got suckered.

If Darnell attempted to blast the A-4 with a missile or his Vulcan cannon, he could easily miss and blow Air Force One out of the air.

“Check switches safe — noses cold!” Darnell ordered his pilots as he shoved both throttles into full afterburner. “I’m gonna get that crazy sonuvabitch!”

Pulling out slightly below the Marine F/A-l8s, Farkas heard the Sidewinder give a low growl as the 747 filled his windshield. The growl turned into a high-pitched screech a second before Farkas fired the missile. As the heat-seeking weapon accelerated to two and a half times the speed of sound, Farkas fired the second Sidewinder. He saw a flash under the right wing of Air Force One as he snapped the A-4 inverted and dove straight toward the undercast.

“Cover the president!” Devil One ordered as he rolled the Hornet over and chased the Skyhawk toward the dark gray clouds. Darnell started to fire a missile at the terrorist, but checked himself when he thought about the civilians beneath the clouds. I have to take a chance! I can’t let him get away!

Just before the A-4 reached the clouds, Darnell fired a missile and watched it track straight into the tailpipe of its prey. The engine exploded in a giant reddish-yellow fireball that blew the airplane in half. Tumbling wildly and leaving a trail of flames and dense black smoke, the Skyhawk disappeared into the clouds.

Bolton and Upshaw were frantically trying to extinguish the fire in the number-three engine when Chief Master Sergeant Willard Brewer rushed into the cockpit.

“Colonel!” he said in his booming voice. “We have flames all the way from the right wing to the tail!”

Bolton was about to answer when the men felt a second, then third explosion. In slow motion the left wing started to rise as Bolton tried to correct for the uncommanded roll. He knew it was hopeless, but his survival instincts took command.

Upshaw and Brewer watched helplessly as Bolton fed in full left aileron and full left rudder. Air Force One slowly rolled over on her back and continued to roll until it was almost upright. Bolton tried to catch it, but the 747 rolled to the right even faster this time. The flight-deck crew had become passengers.