Cloudburst (31 page)

“Let’s get the assets in place and ready.”

One step closer
, Bud thought. “All right. Have the 52s ready to launch. I’ll notify the president.” He tossed a polite salute before heading for the helo.

A moment later the Blackhawk jumped skyward and circled to the left, heading back to the White House. Bud looked at his watch. They would soon be paying respects to the slain chief executive. The thought that he was absent bothered him. He had to be at the center of the storm, trying to bring things safely to an end. Really, though, he was an adviser to the chess player who would move the pawns. Some of the moves would be executed soon, which was Delta’s hope. Bud hoped they would get the chance to checkmate the opponent, otherwise any action would seem like vengeance. It might have been that anyway, he realized.

Whatever happened, he would be safe and secure in the nation’s capital. That thought didn’t bother him—it pissed him off.

Springer Seven-Three

The AWACS was now west of Gibraltar, following much the same course it had on the way into the Med, loitering slightly above a light weather system that was shrouding the North African coast on the Atlantic side for a thousand miles to the south.

Flight 422 was twenty-nine thousand feet, five thousand below that Sentry tracking it. A pair of F-16 Falcons from Spain stayed ten miles back of the hijacked jet.

“Target is changing course,” the radar controller aboard the AWACS announced. “Coming left.”

“Watch ‘em. Give me a true. Com, let the Falcons know.” The commander sat back. He was a full colonel with thirty years in the service and two wars under his belt. This, however, was an abomination in his eyes. Even wars had rules.

“Target, new course of two-zero-five. I show a slow descent.”

“Cobra flight reports negative five hundred feet per minute,” Com reported.

“Radar, give me a plot.”

“Computing, sir.”

Flight 422 was going somewhere, probably close. For a second the commander thought that it might be going down, but why the turn? No—there was a destination. C’mon, baby, land.

“Cobra flight on track,” Com reported.

“Got it,” the radar controller said. “Sir, target on a track to Tenerife.”

“The Canaries. Com, alert the controllers on Tenerife, and get me a secure channel to the Pentagon.”

The Capitol

Some of the most beautiful paintings ever rendered depicting events and people of early American history adorned the walls of the rotunda, beneath the classically pure Capitol dome. During the country’s infancy, artists saw men and their deeds as subjects that would, and did, convey a sense of the awe felt by all at the birth of a new nation. The scenes were dark, with stem-faced people staring out to the circular room, or off into a distance not in the painting.

There was a portrait of Thomas Jefferson to the right of the entryway. It stared at the president as he walked past.

An honor guard stood at attention near the far side of the roped off area directly under the apex of the great dome. One member of each service made up the five-member guard. Their faces were frozen and emotionless. Even the blinking of their eyes seemed mechanical and precise.

The president and his aides approached the dark mahogany casket. It sat atop a riser draped with a deep red skirt, its lid closed and a single peach-colored rose lying on it. In contrast to the blank faces of the military presence, there was emotion visible on the president’s ashen face. It was not sadness, though he felt that. Nor was it anger. It was reserved puzzlement, not really an appropriate response, but it was his way of reacting. No press was there to capture his expression, so he didn’t mask his feelings. A man was in that box: a man who shortly before had been alive, respected, and loved. But now he was gone.
Why?

How many had died? The president pondered that as he stood silently a few inches from the casket. He wanted to touch it, but was that proper? He hadn’t been to a funeral since his dad’s.

A hand touched his elbow. “Sir, it’s time to go.”

The president nodded. His chief of staff was right. He could stand and mourn, reflecting on the tragedy, the brutality, the waste. That would be easy. Or he could try to end it.

“I’m ready,” the president said, ending his unceremonious visit.

Twelve

DOUBTS AND DECISIONS

Al-‘Adiyat

It was the closest his soul had come to peace in years. But it was not enough. True serenity was yet to come. Soon.

Muhadesh sped past the newly placed outer guard post, manned by three lounging ‘regulars’ who snapped to attention as their commander passed.
Indar’s work
. It didn’t surprise Muhadesh.

There were two other posts placed near the road into the camp, both close to the main permanent entrance. Upon nearing that, Muhadesh slowed and stopped, stepping out of the Range Rover to survey the chaos. Indar had done his usual best.

The first noticeable change was the absence of the many power poles that strung electrical and phone wires into the camp. Muhadesh looked back. The poles were missing out to five hundred yards along the entrance road.
Funny
, he thought; he hadn’t noticed that until the vehicle was stopped. He climbed back in and drove on, heading for the command post.

Two work details were piling sandbags against the walls of the command post that faced the parade grounds, and a bulldozer was pushing sand into mounds against the other exposed walls. Another one must have been doing the same on the opposite side of the armory, as was apparent from the sound and clouds of fine sand rising above the low roofs.

A hand waved back and forth. The soldier ran up to the road, and Muhadesh slowed and stopped.

“Captain,” the sergeant called, puffing only slightly.

Muhadesh smiled through the rolled-down window. “Sergeant Ewadi.”
One of my few true soldiers
. Ewadi was actually only one of two remaining soldiers who had been with Muhadesh back in the days when the 3rd was a true military training ground

“What do you think?” the wiry sergeant asked, a knowing grin opening below the black mustache.

“It all looks interesting. You
are
advising Lieutenant Indar, correct? You must be—some of these defenses look intelligently placed.” Muhadesh pointed back along the road. “The three posts?”

“Yes, that was my suggestion. The lieutenant is concerning himself with the interior defenses, as you can see.”

Muhadesh could. “Obviously. Does he think that a sand berm will stop American-guided bombs?”

Ewadi laughed, careful that no one was listening. The nearest soldier was fifty feet away. “Even with good planning there are limitations.”

“The soldiers at the posts?” Muhadesh offered.

Ewadi nodded. “They may be my placements, but these weakling weapons instructors of Indar’s would run before they would fire.”

“Speaking of the lieutenant…”

A finger pointed to the command center. “On the back side. He is directing the placement of the wooden poles. They are to be vehicle barriers.” Ewadi’s comment trailed off skeptically.

Muhadesh saluted the sergeant, then put the Range Rover back in gear. Ewadi was one of those factors that made what he did difficult, and what he was about to do painful. He was not a deterrent, however.

The sound of heavy equipment was more prevalent when Muhadesh pulled directly up to the main entrance of the command center. He ignored the soldiers scurrying about nearby and went immediately inside and upstairs to his office.

There was a smell of diesel exhaust in the room. Muhadesh walked behind his desk and slid the window down, closing and locking it, and then closed the heavy blackout shades over it. The room went dim. He switched the desk lamp on, removed his jacket, and sat down, swiveling the chair to face his older model typewriter.

He took out his notebook and several sheets of plain paper. He inserted one sheet in the typewriter and pecked out a two-sentence message. Muhadesh felt his heart sink as the last word was completed. It was really going to happen. This would seal it. The Americans would not be endeared to him for this, but he had his own battle to fight, one of higher personal importance.

The sinking feeling relaxed, and Muhadesh slipped the single sheet of paper into the fax, dialing the number from memory as he had hundreds of times before. Forty seconds later it was fed back out and the confirmation slip showed that it had been received. A few minutes after that it was automatically forwarded from the CIA front company to the Rome station, and then on to Langley.

Muhadesh sketched out the diagram as Sadr had described it, checking the picture against his notes twice before sending it off, repeating the process.

Next he typed up two more messages on separate pieces of paper, though both could have been placed on one. The Americans would prefer it that way, he knew, but this was his way: the way it had to be. The first message would tell the Americans what the objects on the hijacked plane weren’t. The second one would shed light on what they were. Muhadesh folded the latter and tucked it in his shirt pocket.

The typewriter’s hum ceased. Muhadesh laid the final sheet in the fax’s feed slot and touched the repeat dial button. At the same instant the room dimmed almost to darkness. His attention immediately turned to the desk lamp, which he switched on and off. At first he thought it must have been the bulb, but then the larger problem became apparent. The fax machine was also dark, as was the surveillance control panel next to the video monitor.

Muhadesh sprang up, his legs thrusting the chair backward against the wall. The power was out.
No!
There was one more message to be sent. It had to get to the Americans. The ones already sent would not make sense, and the first, without the third, would cast doubt on his credibility. He removed it from the fax and folded it, placing it with the other in his pocket.

He was frozen for a moment, standing behind the desk. Then rage filled him. His fists clenched at his side. There could be only one cause of the outage.

The shade nearly tore when Muhadesh threw it open, and the window slammed hard against the wooden stops at the top of the frame. Neither sound matched what came from Muhadesh as he leaned through the window and screamed over the parade grounds at the top of his lungs: “Indar!”

Pope AFB

Rain fell intermittently, and when it fell the twenty-knot surface wind pushed it in bunches against the vehicles and aircraft on the expansive tarmac. Notable among them were the C-141 Starlifter, black and green in stark contrast to the misty daylight background, and two dark green Humvees nosed away from the lowered stem ramp of the jet transport.

Around the two vehicles the Delta troopers stood. They wore fresh sets of the black assault gear they would wear in the event they got a go. That they had changed gear and were milling about behind a ready-to-go transport said something. They could feel it. Something was definitely happening.

“Troops, listen up.” It was Blackjack. He walked with purpose to where they stood. “Load the Humvees and follow on. We’ve got a go to get into position.”

“Holy shit,” Quimpo said.

“This is it, Major?” Jones asked.

McAffee’s face was stone. “If we’re there, and there’s an opportunity, then we’re going to take them down.”

Graber read the conditions more than the words. There were ‘ifs’ attached to everything, it seemed, in their line of work. He also read something in the civilian’s face. “You ready for some action, Captain Anderson?”

Joe nodded. It was a nervous affirmation. “Just let me at it.”

“Let’s get aboard,” Blackjack bellowed. The Humvees, driven by two Delta troopers from the slack squad, fired up and backed up the stem ramp into the Starlifter. Each vehicle had a strange, ungainly-looking raised platform mounted on its rear.

The big Italian lieutenant did his best John Wayne: “Saddle uuup!”

Within five minutes the Starlifter’s loadmaster checked the position and tie-downs of the vehicles. Delta was experienced at loading and securing their own gear. He gave it a thumbs-up, and the eleven troopers and the lone civilian settled into the suspended web seats along the inner fuselage. Five minutes later the C-141 throttled down the runway and nosed up into the late-morning storm.

Buxton leaned close to the major. “Where we headed, sir?”

“Tenerife. You ever heard of it?”

He had, but it wasn’t encouraging. “Yeah. Two 747s crashed there ten or fifteen years ago. One slammed into the other when it was landing. Nothing like flying into a place with a history.”

Landing wasn’t what concerned McAffee. The feeling in his gut overpowered that. This one felt like it was going to happen, and experience had taught him that, unlike most human endeavors, the act surpassed the prelude in terror by far.

USS Vinson

The communication suite was worthy of its name compared to most areas of the giant carrier, which were comparatively small considering the ship’s massive displacement. It bristled on three of four walls with communications gear which impressed even Logan, who had seen many a pretender to such a capability.

“Over here, sir.” The petty officer directed Logan to a gray door on the far side of the rectangular room. “This is our secure room.”

He wasn’t joking. There were two locks on the door, one a combination type with a flip-up privacy hood. Whoever operated the dial had to be able to do so by touch; the numbers were not allowed to be seen. The petty officer completed the unlocking and opened the door. “Sir.”

Logan entered the five-by-five-foot room. A single chair was pushed up to a fold-down metal tray, attached to which was a normal-looking phone. Appearance was where the normalcy ended. The gear the phone was connected to was the most secure communications link on earth, identical to that used by the nation’s strategic forces. Also hooked to it was a high-resolution facsimile printer.