Cloudburst (14 page)

“Sir, target… uh, the target is turning. Coming south.” The radar officer leaned closer to his screen. “Around. There. Steadying.” It was a few seconds before the call-out continued. “New course is one-seven-five… no. Still turning. Make that one-eight-zero. He must’ve hauled that baby over on her wingtips to turn that fast.”

“Radar, what’s Bandit One doing?”

“Slowing. Same course, and speed’s down to five-zero- zero knots. Distance to the 747 is nine-zero-miles.”

“Hmm,” Polhill grunted.
Setting up a shot, maybe?

“Viper Two is six minutes out,” Com said. “Whoa! Fox three! Fox three! I have two fox threes. Viper one just fired.” Two Phoenixes—‘fox threes’—were on their way.

“There go—” Radar’s words stopped abruptly. “Bandit Two is firing! I’ve got two missiles inbound! Looks like they’re going for the ‘Cats.”

Smart.
Polhill had seen this before. The MiGs were gambling that the Phoenixes’ own guidance radars hadn’t picked them up on active yet, and that the Tomcats would turn away to avoid the missiles targeted on them. That would take away the beam of radiated energy painting the target and cause the Phoenixes to miss. It was a gutsy move.

But the Tomcat drivers were no stranger to the ploy either, and with their defensive jamming systems on, they slowed to four hundred knots and watched their missiles streak toward Bandit Two.

“
Viper One, shut down! Disengage!
”

What?
The radar officer turned to the commander, who returned his quizzical look. Viper One was already heeding the order from the CAG aboard the
Vinson
. The two F-14s rolled into a tight right, diving turn and shut down their fire control radars, coming around a full three hundred and sixty degrees to face the MiGs again. They were both visible on the Tomcats’ search radars, and to the Hawkeye, heading on a reciprocal course back to Benghazi.

Viper Two took up station thirty miles to the east of Hammer Two Seven, while Viper One remained at its present location to track the retreating MiGs. The weapons officer aboard the Tomcat with a remaining good Phoenix kept his finger on the radar transmit switch, ready to power up the AWG-9 if need be.

Aboard Hammer Two-Seven Commander Polhill questioned the order from the CAG. The Tomcats had two certain kills, courtesy of the overly confident Libyan pilots. Why order them off? It was a clear case of provocation. Hell, MiG-31 Foxhounds closing at nine hundred knots didn’t warrant just a ‘hello.’

“Sir, look.” Radar was pointing to his display.

Polhill took the suggestion. His heart stopped pounding. Directing planes in battle was stressful. An airborne controller was not at all removed from the fight: He was an integral part of it. Missiles streaking toward one of his aircraft might just as well have been aimed at him. Looking at the screen, however, Polhill brought his mind back to the here and now, and an answer to his questioning was apparent. The CAG had the luxury of watching Bandit One as the near battle erupted around the Hawkeye. Bandit One’s two MiGs had formed up on the 747, one mile off of each wing, and were escorting it toward the Libyan coast at four hundred knots.

It never had been necessary to send his Tomcats to protect the hijacked aircraft, the commander realized. Flight 422 was not an intruder…it was a guest.

The White House

“Good, thank you.” The chief of staff hung up the phone. “Bud, Meyerson just arrived.”

The NSA poured himself a cup of coffee. Gonzales waved off the offer. The cups were white stoneware mugs with the presidential seal emblazoned on opposite sides. The hot liquid felt good as Bud wrapped both hands around the mug. “It’s cold in here.”

Gonzales joined Bud, taking one of the seats around the antique coffee table. It sat near the Oval Office fireplace and closer to the president’s desk than the main door. “Mary said the building engineer is going to check on the AC in the morning.” He laughed. “The real morning.”

Really. Bud sipped his cup of caffeine. It was giving him the necessary jolt. He hadn’t wanted to wake the president, hoping that the NSC could get things under control. That wasn’t to be. The report from the Sixth Fleet required that, the need for sleep notwithstanding, he be roused.

“It’s amazing, Bud,” the COS began. “Two days ago we were really only functionaries. Second-string. Look at us now.” His voice trailed off in a melancholic tone. “Damned if I ever wanted to move up this way.”

The Oval Office was a lonely place. There were two men in the room, but each felt alone in many ways. It was an aura of solitude. Bud decided he wouldn’t trade places with the man for anything.

“What do you think’s up?”

Gonzales shrugged, running a hand over his quickly shaven face. “I don’t know, and he may not know, but he sure as hell is going to want a good estimate of what’s happening.”

What was happening? It was Bud’s question of the day.

He had at his disposal every military and civilian intelligence service, their analysts, and all the technological gadgetry available to them. They would already be working to identify the perpetrators and their intentions. But it was he who would have to make an intelligent assessment of the information and present recommendations to the president. It was the challenge he wanted, though a little more time to settle into the job before having this dumped on him would have been welcome.

Gonzales heard the clock’s minute hand click forward. It was that quiet. The president would be down any minute.

Both men rose as the door opened. It was a new reflex.

“Bud. Ellis.” The president wore a gray sweat suit and dirty white tennis shoes. The Secret Service hadn’t given him much time to dress. He took a seat across from his advisers. “What do we have?”

Bud pushed the mug away from the edge of the table and brought both hands together. “Mr. President, I’ve called in the NSC. They’re assembled in the situation room and the deputies group is also working. About an hour and a half ago an American carrier passenger flight, numbered 422, was hijacked out of Athens. Then, not very long ago, some of our naval aircraft tracking the jet near the North African coast had a confrontation with several Libyan fighters.”

The president was instantly awake. “Were there any casualties?”

“No, thankfully.” Bud wished he had written a brief, but there hadn’t been time. “There was fire exchanged, but the commander on the
Vinson
—that was the carrier involved—ordered his fighters to disengage.”

“Why?”

“Flight 422 was in the middle of the whole thing. Our fighters were trying to protect it as the Libyans approached in two groups. Our pilots believed the fighters were going to attack the 747, and their own command aircraft, so they fired. The Libyans returned fire.”

“And there were no casualties?” The president was a bit perplexed, and his face showed it.

“None. While the action was taking place the hijacked aircraft made a turn and headed toward the Libyan coast.”

“Could he have been maneuvering to avoid fire, or a missile?” the president asked.

Bud shook his head. “There were no missiles directed at the 747, and they wouldn’t have known if there were; commercial aircraft don’t carry the types of sensors that would indicate if they were targeted, and the Libyans were well out of their visual range.”

“My God,” the president said. “How many people on board?”

“Over three hundred,” Bud answered.

“Including the crew,” Gonzales added.

The president was silent for a moment. “Am I reading this the way it sounds?”

“I’m afraid so,” Bud affirmed. He couldn’t read the president’s mind, but the man was smart. “The aircraft made no radio calls indicating a course change, nor did it receive any; our command aircraft would have detected that. Plus, the two Libyan fighters that appeared to be in a position to attack flight 422 formed up to
escort
it.” Bud paused. “You can understand why the air group commander called off our fighters.”

“I can now.” The president was visibly upset. His mouth formed into a pout of seriousness. “So, Colonel Qaddafi has decided to become involved.”

“In a very large way, sir,” Bud added.

“The good colonel didn’t hold to his promises very long, did he? Well, we’ve got two incidents to deal with now.” The president made a point to keep the two happenings separate, though his mind was putting that which was obvious together. “I can’t keep Nate here. We need him over in Britain. They’re pretty pissed off, I understand. Not at us, just in general. He can do a lot to keep things calm. Bud, you’ll have to chair the NSC on this, and I want to be kept up-to-date. Every four hours, and more if you think it’s warranted.” He turned to his COS. “I remember the media circus some of the past hijackings have generated. You talk to Herman and set some guidelines for press contact on this. It could get messy. That’s just a feeling.

“Bud, what have we done so far?”

“Delta has been activated to start preparations for any contingency. The necessary agencies are working on why, how, and who. That’s the tough stuff to figure out in this kind of situation. After the council takes a look at it we may have more, but for now …” Bud threw his hands apart.

“I don’t like the fact that these people always seem to be controlling us,” the president said. “We’re always reacting. And with the rest going on…  So, an American aircraft is going to be landing in Libya. When?”

“About thirty minutes,” Bud replied.

The chief executive sat back into a thinking pose with one finger tracing circles on his chin. “This will not turn into another, flight 847,” he said, referring to the seventeen-day ordeal on the ground in Beirut.

Bud had one final thing to inform the president of. “Sir, there was a message from the aircraft just before the confrontation with the fighters.”

“We can’t take everything they say as truthful, sir,” the COS pointed out.

The president took his friend’s words, then looked back to Bud. “What was said?”

“They said they’re coming here.”

“Here?”

The NSA nodded. “To America.”

Flight 422

The coast was approaching fast. Mohammed Hadad crouched behind and between the pilots, his hand resting on the top of the arrogant copilot’s seat back. The man was nervous. Every few seconds he would cock his eyes to the left to see the trigger switch just four inches away. Hadad sensed more than saw this. Soon this man would be more frightened.

“You are a soldier,” Hadad stated. The barrel of his Uzi rested on the co-pilot’s shoulder.

Buzz’s jaw muscles spasmed at the tone.
Fuck you!
“Marine,” he said softly.

“Marine…” Hadad smiled, his head nodding. “Were you in Beirut, Marine? Did you murder the children of Beirut, Marine?”

Buzz tried to ignore the taunting, unsuccessfully, and the rising burning sensation in his neck tingled on the surface as hot met cold.
Raghead asshole!
He would have bitten his lip to control the anger…no, hatred welling up in him, but that would have given something away to the pirate. Anyway, snapping his neck would have been a better use of adrenaline.

“You.” Hadad stepped back to his seat. “You do not know or care what happens to the many children of those you oppress…do you?” There was no answer. “You will know. You will know.”

Captain Hendrickson tried to block out the conversation. He knew that Buzz would kill this guy given the chance. He wanted to smile, but resisted when Buzz practically prayed the word Marine in response to the hijacker’s verbal jab. It was a fitting answer. His first officer was a gung ho jarhead if ever there was one. He had probably eaten guts and farted bullets at one time in his life. Marines did that for fun, he had heard.

As the
Clipper Atlantic Maiden
neared the coast the captain increased power in the four big engines. The warming air above the desert floor was thinner than that over the water and thus required more thrust from the turbofans to maintain lift A slight pull back on the control column added a little more nose-up attitude to the aircraft, and additional upward force. There was an immediate rise in the whine of the engines as their RPMs increased.

They were going to land. Captain Hendrickson had the stick, leaving Buzz to handle the minor duties required to set the huge aircraft down. The first officer keyed his mike to raise the tower.

Hadad jumped forward, striking Buzz with the Uzi’s barrel behind the left ear. A shallow gouge opened and filled with blood.

“No radio!”

Buzz’s hand came down bloodied from the left side of his face. He felt a cool trickle of blood on his neck. “You fucking—”

“Buzz!” The captain reached across the center console, grabbing his co-pilot. “Another time.” His eyes bored into those in the seat opposite him, into those of his friend. Buzz was more than his first officer. They had flown together too many times over the years to be just co-workers. “We have to fly her, Buzz. Another time. Okay? Another time.”

Hadad pulled back and smiled. “Listen to your cap-tan, Number Two. He is wise with his words.”
But there will not be another time.

The old Marine swallowed his contempt and again wiped his reddened ear and neck. Rivulets of blood ran down and stained his collar a dark crimson. He shifted his stare to the pirate, whose face was lit with an unnatural glow from the sunlight filtering through the thick windscreen. He was half turned, facing the grinning pirate, whose eyes showed no fear, only power: the power that came with the gun and a planeload of unarmed innocents.

“If you wish to be first to die, Number Two, that would please me.” The smile left Hadad’s face.

Buzz turned back to the front and the attention of the aircraft. He scanned the instruments—they were all nominal. The captain was right. Now was the time to fly, to keep the
Maiden
flying. There would be another time. He touched his ear again. The blood flow seemed to be minor and slowing as clots formed at the source. At the same instant the Clipper
Atlantic Maiden
crossed the coastline.