Primary Target (1999) (47 page)

"I don't want to get too slow," Jackie cautioned as she banked into a gentle turn. "It's too hard to regain energy quickly enough."

"You sound like a fighter pilot." He grinned good-naturedly.

She turned her head and gave him a slow smile. "That's because I am a fighter pilot."

***

After a slight hesitation, Massoud Ramazani reached for an AK-47 and stepped to the side of the short passageway leading to the bridge. He glanced at the captain and saw the fear in the man's eyes.

"Stay on course," he ordered as his heart pounded a little harder. "There's something familiar about the people in that--" He stopped in sudden shock when he recognized the woman. "It's them, the man and woman who were flying the floatplane!"

Temporarily paralyzed, the skipper found his voice a few seconds later. "The people who flew over us after our helicopter left?"

"Yes," Ramazani said curtly.

"What are we going to do?"

Ignoring the question, Ramazani checked the ocean in every direction. The closest boat, a smaller yacht, was at least two miles from Sweet Life.

"Come left five degrees and slowly increase our speed." If I walk out on deck, they'll recognize me.

"I'll take the wheel," Ramazani said as he stepped toward the captain's chair. "Take our guests some water or something, and wave and smile at the helicopter."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Ramazani snapped in a sharp voice. "Act like you're having the time of your life."

The nervous skipper looked confused.

"Do it!" Ramazani ordered as he selected VHF on the aircraft scanner and increased the volume of the VHF marine radio. He noted the side number of the helo and gradually advanced the throttles-Just go away and don't cause any problems.

Jackie and Scott were about to start the second circle when a man with four gold stripes on each shoulder walked out of the bridge, waved a couple of times, then headed toward the built-in wet bar on the sundeck.

"If he isn't from the Middle East," Scott said with concern in his voice, "I'll buy you dinner every night for the next month."

"That's the same kind of boat, no question about it," Jacki
e
said as she kept the turn fairly tight. "What do you make of the blondes onboard?"

"Who knows? Most men--regardless of their persuasion or age--enjoy attractive young women."

She studied the yacht for a few seconds. Other than the color of the paint, how many yachts look like the one we saw in the Florida Keys? Not many of this size. "Maybe we should notify the Coast Guard and keep this guy in sight until they can check him out."

"That's probably the best thing to do," Scott agreed as he reached for the handheld marine radio, then keyed the transmit button to talk to the closest vessel they had seen. "Coast Guard cutter Legare, this is Bell Three-Niner-Five-Tango. Coast Guard cutter Legare, LongRanger Three-Niner-FiveTango."

Ramazani's eyes flashed cold fear when he heard the call gc-, out to the Coast Guard. Reacting from a combination of instinct and desperation, he grabbed one of the two portable antiaircraft missiles and raced for the passageway leading to the door. Without slowing down, he ran out on the wide sundeck and launched the missile at the LongRanger.

The missile tried to make a tight course correction, but it had been launched too close to the helicopter. When it flashed by the cockpit, Jackie and Scott flinched.

"Whoa," Jackie exclaimed as she instinctively lowered the nose to gain speed and put some distance between the helo and the yacht. She was nursing maximum power out of the LongRanger when another missile slashed over the top of the helo.

"Stay low and accelerate!" Scott insisted as he turned to look at the yacht. "Let's get tail-on to him!"

"Who's flying this thing?" Jackie exclaimed.

"I believe we just found Ramazani," Scott said loudly as he reached for his Sig Sauer.

"You really think so?" she asked with a hint of sarcasm. He twisted around to catch a glimpse of the yacht. "Start a level turn to the left and we'll approach from the bow." "Are you nuts?"

"Not completely."

Pulling all the power she could muster from the Alliso
n
turbine, Jackie banked the helo into a tight left turn.

The marine VHF radio suddenly came alive. "Bell helicopter calling Coast Guard cutter Legare, say again."

Scott grabbed the radio. "Bell Three-Niner-Five-Tango has come under fire from the motoryacht Sweet Life three miles northeast of Ponte Vedra Beach! There are terrorists onboard the Sweet Life, and we request immediate assistance! Do you copy?"

"Stand by," the startled radio operator said.

"We don't have time to stand by!" Scott shot back. "I need to speak to your commanding officer! This is an emergency!" The urgent request was met with silence.

"Damn," Scott said as he tossed the radio aside and looked at the two women. "They don't have a clue," he said to Jackie as the two college students scrambled down a ladder leading to the yacht's wide transom. "We have to try to persuade them to jump before Ramazani kills them."

"Or takes them hostage," she added, glancing at the frightened women. "He's on his way to the transom!"

Scott raised the binoculars to his eyes. "He's carrying a rifle, so they may be out of missiles.

"Start a climbing left turn to take us over the yacht," Scott said as he unlatched the door. "At the apex of our climb, let it drift over the top while I fire straight down on him." Jackie nodded as she called Jacksonville Approach Control and flew the helo into a position where Scott could get a clear shot.

With the AK-47 in his hand, Ramazani was crossing the open aft deck when Scott opened fire, startling the Islamic militant. He fled into the main salon as the two women cowered in a corner of the transom.

"Make a low pass across the stern," Scott said as he gave Jackie the marine radio, then clambered into the back of the helicopter.

"Here we go," Jackie warned Scott as she explained the situation to the surprised air traffic controller.

Scott opened the aft door and waited until they were almost directly behind the yacht, then shoved the door open and put his hands together in a diving motion.

Confused and panicked by the sudden arrival of the helicopter and the unexpected chaos, the women froze in place.

"Oh, shit," Scott said as he saw Ramazani emerge from the salon and wave the rifle at the women. Scott opened fire, striking Ramazani in the right forearm.

"They jumped," Jackie exclaimed as the two women leaped off the stem. "They're in the water."

"I'll toss them our raft!" Scott said as he reached for the bright yellow carrying case. "Put me slightly upwind from them."

"You got it," she said, ignoring the Coast Guard calls and the Jacksonville approach controller. "I have to get on the sat-phone and see if I can reach Hartwell."

Before Scott could answer, a round shattered the right passenger door window while small geysers of water began erupting around the women.

Chapter
47

The A-4 Skyhawk
.

Angered by the short notice about Air Force One, Khaliq
Farkas was over ten minutes behind schedule, but the lat
e
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
. A
cceptable, 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 Flight Level 370."

"Coming right and climbing to 370, Lima Bravo."

Thirty miles north-northwest of the A-4 Skyhawk, Air Forc
e
Lieutenant Colonel Clem Haskell and his fellow F-15 Eagl
e
pilots were orbiting at 35,000 feet. Each aircraft was arme
d
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?