Cloudburst (47 page)

He had expected old analogue instruments and sweep lights on circular radar displays, but instead there were modem Japanese sets. They couldn’t have been more than two years old. The controllers spoke in hushed Spanish, more quietly the longer he had been among them.

One of the operators looked up, speaking directly to the State Department interpreter. The balding Cuban American listened to the full message. “Mr. Secretary, the aircraft has just asked for a tug. Apparently they have no brakes.”

“That’s no surprise.” Coventry held out his hand. The interpreter removed the handset from the portable unit slung on his shoulder and gave it to his boss.

The White House

The president answered the phone himself. “Yes.”

“The aircraft is about to leave, sir.” Secretary Coventry sounded cool. Maybe it was easier being close to the action, the president surmised.

He looked around at the other three. “Any last-minute concerns?” There weren’t. The situation had practically dictated the responses to it, a truism that the president was now well aware of, and determined to prevent from recurring. “Jim, I’m giving Delta the authorization to rescue the hostages as per the plan.”

Not ten feet away Secretary of Defense Meyerson picked up a tan-colored phone on the president’s desk. It rang immediately in the NMCC.

“Granger here.”

“General Granger, inform Delta to execute CLOUDBURST.”

There were no other words. Both the president and Meyerson hung up simultaneously.

“Here we go,” the NSA said. “People are going to die.”

“The right people, Bud.” Landau massaged the wooden arm of the chair. It was smooth and hard, and the grooves made by colonial workmen were impeccable still, after two centuries of wear. “That may seem wrong, I know. We’re raised to fear God, and to believe that every life is precious. Jesus, you know, we’ve got to believe that, even in this business when we’re talking about death…about causing death. It’s just that somewhere, for whatever reasons, some folks turn bad. They take a wrong turn. God knows some of them really believe they’re in the right, but they can’t preach their own divinity. My wife always says that a man can believe what he wants to believe, that he can convince himself of anything—anything!—but there is one force in the universe”—Landau’s wiry finger pointed upward—“that knows.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “We may be the great pretenders, but if so, then we’re the pretenders on the side of right. I can look inside my heart each night and see that. We all can.”

Wisdom, fortunately, spoke eloquently when aged in human form. Landau told the others all that they needed to hear, for their silent doubts were surfacing at the moment of truth. He had known such moments before, and again he had shared of himself.

“Bud,” the president started, then held his words for a long moment. He stood, digging his hands deep in his pockets. “I’ve thought about your idea, or proposal, whatever it is. It may be your thinking, but if I agree with it and decide to execute it then I am the final arbiter. You are an adviser.”

“Mr. President?” Meyerson sensed that one military operation was all that was going to happen.

The president faced his defense chief. “Stand down the strike, Drew.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, without visible disappointment, and picked up the same phone as before.

“Mr. President, are you going to approve the proactive plan?” Bud asked.

“Tentatively, yes. But I want this to be legal, accepted by those in Congress who need to know, and covert as hell. About the only thing the Agency’s previous residents did that was even semi-intelligent was trying to keep their actions secret.” To most those words would be deceitful, almost sinister, but the practice of ‘need to know’ was meant to protect. In a Utopian society everyone could know about everything—maybe. But not in the twentieth century. Some deeds of leaders were best left to follow those in the know to their graves.

“We’ll need a time line for Congress,” Landau noted. Only eight members of Congress would ever know about it, the absolute minimum allowed by law.

“I’d like Bud and you to put that together. Drew, your office will work with Bud and the CIA to get the operational details down.” He looked at his national security adviser. “I want complete security on this, Bud. Your responsibility.”

“Absolutely.”

The president went behind his desk and sat down. Except for the darkness through the window behind him he looked as though he had just sat down to start work. He dialed the office of his chief of staff. “Ellis. I just gave the go to Delta, so your work is going to pick up in an hour or so.” Gonzales was working with the presidential press secretary to ensure that the right word went out when the time came. “And, Ellis, I want you to call the Speaker and Majority Leader right away. Inform them of what’s going on, and set them up to be in my office at seven tomorrow evening. Yes, evening. There’s no time before the funeral, and the rest of the afternoon is shot. I don’t want to break any routine on scheduling this…clear? Good. Right, it’s quiet. And, one more thing. I want the attorney general in here in one hour. Quietly, also. Thanks.” He set the receiver down and looked at the wall clock. “How long, Drew?”

“Fifteen or twenty minutes. We’ll know in a half an hour.”

Many times before, presidents and their advisers had sat in that very room under similar circumstances. The Mayaguez incident. The Iran rescue mission. Son Tay. None had been completely successful, and one had been labeled a grand tragedy of failure. However, they would all pale in comparison to the success or failure of the present attempt to wrest American innocents from a willing and able foe. Success would bring jubilation and a major boost in the approval rating for the fledgling administration, an accepted measure of a chief executive’s ability to govern, like it or not. Failure, aside from the obvious loss of life, would shake the new government, and no one in the Oval Office had any illusions about the survivability of the new president if that should happen.

Romeo Flight

His ‘escorts’ were waiting exactly where the AWACS had told him they would be. He tracked them on radar, and they him, until their separation was minimal. Now their anti-collision lights outlined their frames, in unmistakable detail. Fulcrums.

Cooper’s usual ride, the F-15C, would be more of a comfort right now. It was damn hard to shake the sense of helplessness he felt just floating along, ten thousand feet up, with MiGs on each wing. Some other Air Force plane had been graced with their presence. The radio told all.

Radio, he remembered. It was just about time. He dialed in 243.0 on his radio, the military emergency frequency. The procedures for contact had been established hastily, leaving the weekend warrior wondering if the Cubans would be listening. And if they were, would they understand English?

“Romeo Flight to Springer Seven-Eight.” With only minutes to go, Cooper wanted to make damn sure no one else was near, especially in his blind spot.

“Romeo, go ahead.”

“Request traffic check.”

“Romeo, you’re clear out to two hundred miles. Just your two friends close in on you.”

The AWACS wouldn’t even have a defined radar picture of the MiGs. They were too close. It was their lack of proper Interrogator, Friend or Foe response that gave them away. When search radar emissions from the AWACS painted the three fighters, small transponders in each, if turned on, would add a ‘biography’ to the energy reflected back to the sending unit. If the unit was friendly, a coded response would identify it as such on the display. If not, it would be tagged a hostile. The MiGs were as concerned as the F-106 about being mistaken by their own radar, and, wisely, had their own IFFs turned on.

“Roger, Springer.” Now it was time to contact the Cubans. “United States aircraft, Romeo, to Revolution Flight.” They were obviously prone to ideological theatrics, even in their coding.

“Romeo, Romeo, go ahead.”
The reply was in an amazingly accent-free English. Cooper had heard about something like this in recent years. The Cubans were using pilots well-versed in the language of the norte-americanos. Their linguistic skill had come from actually working and going to school in the States, a feat made possible by the much lamented DGI, the Cuban intelligence service. It had been one of their few successes in recent years, until the CIA had turned an overseas DGI agent, who had gladly told all. Operation
Hermano Grande
, as it was known in ironically Orwellian Spanish, soon came to a halt, though not until two dozen or more Cuban agents had been cycled through training north of the Rio Grande. Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras, all friendly nations to the United States, were unwittingly used as back doors into the country for the agents, who then were free to roam, with their forged visas, and become proficient in the language.

“Revolution Flight, I am climbing to angels”—he had to correct himself—“to twenty thousand.” The Cubans might know English, but he hoped they were still ignorant of military terms.
God…what if one of them’s in the Air Force right now?

“Understood. We will follow and break away at—”
the Cuban pilot watched as the Delta Dart nosed up and went to afterburner. Obviously the
yanqui
wasn’t going to wait. But, their orders were specific: escort and protect. That made the pilots, both alumni of
Hermano Grande
, want to spit. The Alamo missiles under each wing were meant to be targeted at Americans, not…

Cooper felt the familiar old kick in the butt as the J75 engine’s afterburner lit up, adding a crude form of rocket propulsion to the jet’s normal thrust. The F-106 pulled away from the Russian-built fighters, though there was no question that they could, if desired, fly circles around it That was the blessing of modem aircraft.

There was one thing the old bird could do that its younger bastard cousins couldn’t, and that knowledge scared the hell out of Snoopy. The Cubans couldn’t see his helmet shake slightly as he pondered just what he was supposed to do.

Flight 422

The three men in the cockpit lost sight of the squat-looking tug as it went beneath the nose of the
Maiden
. A minute later the big jet bucked backward a bit.

“She’s hooked.” Buzz noted the positive lock light go on, and also moved his gaze to the left a few inches. Another light would be going on soon, and with it a subtle buzzer.

Hendrickson sensed that the terrorist had again sat down. Did that mean he was relaxing? The whole crazy plan hinged on that. He had to make sure the killer felt safe.

“That’s it, Buzz. We’re rolling, and next stop is New York.”
Nice try,
the captain thought, knowing that he was neither a hypnotist nor a psychologist. He decided that he’d better just let things be, and hope for the best.

They were moving forward, Hadad felt. Very slowly. He let his eyes close for a moment, and his head tilt back. It was a moment of relaxation, his whole body feeling the release, with the notable exception of his thumb.

When his eyes again opened Hadad could see motion through the windshield. Faint lights moved from left to right as the aircraft swung slowly to the left.

As the
Maiden
finished her turn off of the curving crossway she had stopped on, and her rear aligned itself with the long taxiway along the runway, a set of double sliding doors came open in the darkness three hundred yards behind.

The Humvees sped across the narrow grass median between the hangar and the crossway in ten seconds, and powered up to 40 mph on the taxiway in eight seconds. They were blacked out, their drivers relying on the sidelights along the pavement and the glow of the 747’s underside strobe. Their target was on the right rear, aft of the pulsing light and in the cockpit’s blind spot.

Graber rose from his sitting position on the platform at the lead vehicle’s rear. There was an identical one on the following Humvee. Eight feet off the ground and moving at speed the captain knelt upright. McAffee had his left ankle from below. The wind was cold, and Sean figured it would even feel that way without the speed-induced gusts.

The
Maiden
was coming up quickly, and the drivers adjusted speed, expertly slowing without using the brakes. It was one time a sensitive accelerator and the governor worked well in an Army vehicle, requiring only a lifting of the foot off the pedal to slow the green-and-black vehicles.

Graber was astride his target now: the starboard rear cargo door. He rose up on his feet, holding on to the crude rail they had installed. Still, he was only at eye level with the metallic circle on the rectangular door’s lower side. He removed the four-inch key from around his neck, keeping it on the long lanyard that would catch it if a slip happened.

They all saw the captain’s foot stomp the metal grate platform. It was time for the light. Quimpo held up the Streamlight, aiming at the point that Graber’s outstretched arm was reaching for. The driver slid closer to the slow- moving jet, just…close…enough…

There it was. A one-inch vertical slit, dead center in the circle. It came closer, or the Humvee slid left—Sean couldn’t tell. But it was close enough. The tool-like key was gripped solidly in his right hand, and he moved it toward the slit, aiming and hitting the solid door the first time, and connecting perfectly on the second try.

*  *  *

“What is it?” Hadad stood at the buzzing sound.

Show time
. “Son of a bitch!” Hendrickson reached across the console. He and Buzz were tapping and playing with the same switch. A light was flashing near it.

“What?” Hadad’s tone was calmer. He had almost become accustomed to setbacks, and for a second he wondered if Abu had been right. Maybe they should have waited for…
No!
The timing would be completely off. The purpose would not be achieved, and his brothers would have died in vain.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” Buzz turned his head as the captain continued to fiddle with the control. “Just our ram air turbine. It gives us power if the engines cut out on us.” He turned away then quickly back. “It ain’t surprising, considering what she’s been through.”