Primary Target (1999) (16 page)

Noticing the concerned look in Jackie's eyes, Scott gave her a brief smile. "As we speak, the FAA, the FBI, the Counterterrorist Center, the Army's Delta Force, and the Navy's Dev Group--the Naval Special Warfare Development Group, formerly known as SEAL Team Six--are working round the clock to locate Farkas. We'll concentrate on finding him as soon as we get Maritza out of the camp. Like I said, she may know where we can find him."

Jackie nodded. "If she knows that, she may know how they plan to assassinate the president."

"Yeah, that's a possibility." Scott casually glanced aroun
d
the dining room before turning his attention back to Jackie. "Oh, I almost forgot. Hartwell gave me one other tidbit of information about Farkas."

"I hope it's good," she said with a lazy smile.

"Well, it gives us an idea of how he operates."

"And?"

"The FBI checked the ATC tapes from Salt Lake Center, Denver, Minneapolis, Kansas City, Chicago, and Indianapolis Center. From the time the witnesses said that Farkas took off from Casper, every jet the controllers handled for the next three hours was checked out and located, including a Sabre-liner that wasn't flying that day. It was undergoing maintenance at its base in Houston."

"The phantom corporate jet," Jackie said in mild disbelief, then sent a glance heavenward.

"That's right," Scott declared. "The controllers said it sounded like the Sabre pilot was wearing an oxygen mask. Since he hadn't declared an emergency, they didn't question why he was wearing it at 37,000 feet."

Jackie shook her head in frustration. "Let me guess--no crews identified their traffic as being an A-4 Skyhawk? No one corrected the controllers?"

"Yup. From what the FAA and FBI have reconstructed, the A-4 was in and out of the clouds most of the time." "Where did he land?"

"He was filed for Charleston, West Virginia, but he canceled 1FR approximately ninety miles west of the city and disappeared. Where he went is anyone's guess, but the feds are scouring the airports in the area."

"I wish them lots of luck." She gazed into his eyes. "Regardless of how this operation turns out, I want to thank you for helping us."

"You can thank me later," he said with a radiant smile, then leaned closer to her. "We're going after Maritza tomorrow night, twenty-four hours early, so you better send her the signal tonight after midnight."

Jackie's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Are you going to tell Hartwell about our change in plans?"

"No," he admitted reluctantly.

Jackie gave him a curious look. "You trust him, don't you?"

"With my life," Scott said without hesitation. "But I don't know who might be pumping him for information."

"Good point," she said in a tempered voice, then raised her glass. "To Maritza Gunzelman, and a successful rescue." Scott stared into Jackie's eyes and felt the blood surge through his veins. "To a successful mission."

Chapter
15

USS Hampton
.

R
esting in the quiet darkness of his private cabin, Navy I 'Commander Robert Gillmore dozed fitfully as Hampton silently slipped through the cold depths of the Indian Ocean northeast of Madagascar. With the exception of the slowerthan-usual transit through the narrow Strait of Gibraltar, the long voyage from the Mediterranean to the Gulf of Oman was progressing smoothly.

Operating alone and undetected, the Los Angeles--class nuclear attack submarine was nearing its destination. Gillmore and his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Todd Lassiter, were the only men aboard the "boat" who were privy to their secret orders. The rest of the crewmen were aware that the captain was deviating somewhat from standard procedures, but the officers and sailors didn't speculate on the nature of their mission, at least not openly. They knew the cerebral, tight-lipped skipper was not a man who tolerated scuttlebutt.

Bob Gillmore was a tall man who stooped to pass under normal doorways. In spite of his imposing size, he was adroit at navigating the narrow passageways in Hampton. His soft brown eyes peeked from under bushy eyebrows, and his thinning, sandy-colored hair was rarely out of place. Even in th
e
confines of a cramped submarine, Gillmore seemed always to be immaculate and clean-shaven.

His quarters, no larger than steerage-class accommodations onboard a passenger ship, provided him with the only space he could call his own, his small kingdom away from home. To Gillmore, being here was like sitting in his living room in Groton, Connecticut--completely still, without even the slightest hint of motion. It was the only haven in the boat where he could relax and lose himself in the masterpieces of Count Leo Tolstoy.

Gillmore, a distinguished graduate of the U
. S
. Naval Academy and a third-generation submariner, was considered by his superiors to be one of the best and brightest skippers in the silent service. Unlike his colorful and gregarious father, Bob Gillmore drank sparingly, ate a healthy diet, and exercised on a regular basis. On duty, or at home with his family, he spent the majority of his time focused on the next hurdle in his highly competitive career. His primary goal in life centered on becoming the chief of naval operations. To that end, the seasoned technocrat-manager was an excellent career planner. He carefully labored over every decision and how it might affect his future. As the admiral at La Maddalena had clearly explained, this operation would have to be flawlessly executed. The translation for Gillmore was abundantly clear; bungle the mission and your first afloat command will be your last. His future would be in the civilian world, not at the helm of an $870 million nuclear submarine.

At this stage of his delicate climb to the top, he cursed any involvement in operations that might jeopardize his plans. He desperately wanted to successfully finish his current tour of duty as skipper of Hampton, then get off the hot seat and report to the admiral's staff at New London--the heart and unofficial capital of the U
. S
. submarine force. He rolled on his side and squinted at the eerie red multifunction display near his narrow bunk. The databank provided an instantaneous readout of Hampton's depth, speed, course, position, and the current tactical situation.

All was well, prompting Gillmore to yawn and stretch his long legs, then roll on his back. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared into the inky darkness, carefully calculating the risks involved in the special mission, Operation Desert Phantom. A few minutes later, after reassuring himself that everything would work out to his satisfaction, Gillmore drifted into a restless sleep.

Sixteen hundred miles to the northeast of Hampton, the attack submarine Cheyenne glided through the depths of the Arabian Sea off the western coast of India. Her mission was the same as Hampton's--destroy the two Iranian missile sites. Cheyenne's Raytheon Tomahawlc/BGM-109 cruise missiles would follow a different course to their targets, arriving minutes after Hampton's Tomahawk land attack missiles.

Gulf of Oma
n
The Liberian-registered freighter Dauntless barely made headway through the placid waters while the picket ship's thirty-nine-year old Iranian master trained his binoculars on a low-flying jet. The early-morning sky was hazy and visibility was limited, but he immediately recognized the stubby-looking twin-engine aircraft.

Known as "Hoovers" because the engines sound like vacuum cleaners, it was a U
. S
. Navy all-weather, antisubmarine and antisurface warfare plane patrolling for submarine activity near the approach to the Strait of Hormuz. The dull gray Lockheed S-3B Viking banked to the left and flew directly toward the rusty freighter, passing close to the fantail before resuming its search pattern.

A few minutes later, between bites of greasy lamb chops and sour rye bread, the captain watched as a mammoth aircraft carrier and her escort ships materialized on the opaque horizon. When the battle group drew closer, the skipper and his skeleton crew could see that the flattop's flight deck bristled with aircraft. The captain consulted his dog-eared U
. S
. Ship and Aircraft Recognition Manual and identified the carrier as the nuclear-powered USS George Washington, one of the newest ships in the infidel's Atlantic Fleet.

He raised his binoculars and studied the other vessels, recognizing the guided-missile cruiser USS Normandy and the destroyers USS John Rodgers and USS O'Bannon. Other escort ships included the guided-missile frigates USS Boone and USS Underwood, plus three support ships. The attack submarine USS Annapolis went undetected.

With tensions running high between the United States and Iran, Tehran claimed that the Americans were attempting to make their presence and vast influence in the region irreversible. Underscoring Tehran's worst fears, the "Arabian Gulf" had become the focal point of U
. S
. global strategy. Since the Gulf War, the crucial waterway off the coast of Iran had become the one place where the world's only military superpower openly and consistently showed its strength. As the Iranian master knew, Washington's powerful fighter planes would soon be screeching up and down the length of the Persian Gulf, swooping low over the waterway at speeds nipping the sound barrier. Occasionally, a young jet jock would nudge his sleek Tomcat or Hornet past Mach one, sending a sonic boom reverberating across the narrow Gulf. The intimidation factor was causing a great degree of angst to military and political leaders in Tehran.

At the captain's direction, the communications technician punched in a code at his console and sent a scrambled message to Tehran. After receiving a confirmation reply and further instructions, he sent a warning message to seven of Iran's aging regular Navy Combattante IIB guided-missile patrol craft.

When the last skipper checked in, the comm tech changed radio frequencies and sent a message to the eight Houdongclass patrol boats manned by sailors of the more politically favored fleet of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy. The skippers of the small Chinese-built warships raced to take up their assigned positions near the entrance to the Strait of Hormuz.

The communications tech would have to wait almost an hour to contact the first of three Iranian Project 877 Kilo-class submarines operating in the area. Venturing farther from port and remaining submerged longer than ever, the Russian-built, ultraquiet boats only poked their communications masts above the surface at preset times. After making contact with Dauntless, one of the submarines would be instructed to reposition in the southern waters of the Arabia
n
Gulf. The other two boats would remain on station in the Gulf of Oman and Arabian Sea.

Equipped with computer-driven weapons control systems and Russian Novator Alpha (NATO SS-N-27) antiship missiles, the Iranian Kilos fielded the latest generation of torpedo-tube-launched cruise missiles. The Russian equivalent to the antiship version of the Tomahawk, the Alpha ejects a supersonic submissile that can defeat almost any terminal defense system.

Minutes after Tehran had been notified of Washington's current location, the supercarrier erupted with activity as one fighter plane after another blasted down the bow catapults and roared into the air. As the launches continued, the Iranians watched the blazing action while a few aircraft began landing on the carrier's angled flight deck. While the Iranian crew was absorbed with the air show, an F-14 Tomcat came in low from behind them and blasted over the freighter's bridge. The shocked crew ducked in unison and simultaneously cursed the cocky Americans.

The Iranians continued to watch air operations until the carrier disappeared in the dark haze. Dauntless and her crew would remain in the area and monitor events until the American armada left the region.

Chapter
16

The Mediterranean Sea
.

The pilots of the Navy SH-60 Seahawk were uncharacterI istically quiet as their helicopter cruised at 1,200 feet above the tranquil blue sea. The flight crew's orders had been simple and straightforward; don't discuss anything with your passengers, unless there is an emergency, and don't discuss the mission with your shipmates when you return. The two lieutenants had been instructed to refuel the helo in Cyprus after their passengers departed, then immediately return to their ship.

In the back of the SH-60, Jackie, Scott, and Greg had gone over every detail of their mission. Afterward Jackie and Greg got acquainted exchanging basic information about their backgrounds. Later they went over the radio terminology and code names the team would be using during the operation. When Scott jumped from the Caravan, O'Donnell would continue on course and monitor the radio calls. Once Jackie had retrieved Maritza and Scott, Greg would declare an emergency, then turn off his transponder and external lights as he dove for the deck and set a course for Athens. If Greg experienced a real emergency that forced him to bail out or crash-land the rugged Cessna, Jackie would attempt to pick him up as soon as Scott and Maritza were safely aboard the helicopter. If the LongRanger develope
d
problems that forced Jackie to land, she would try to make it to one of the suitable landing sites for the Caravan.

They all agreed it was a fairly straightforward plan, but they knew the devil was in the details. What had they overlooked? What had they not anticipated?

Their briefing gave way to silence as Scott and Jackie checked their personal equipment for the third time. Surrounded by enlarged land maps and aeronautical charts, Scott circled a point thirty nautical miles off the coast of Lebanon. "When you cross this fix, transmit 'Charlie Tango' and switch to your secondary frequency for our reply. If we're off the mark, I'll give you a plus or minus on our position from the Initial Point."