Hostile Fire (26 page)

Asrar Fouad heard about the woman in the Volkswagen asking questions at the airfreight firms. He even saw her once when she went into Lisbon Air a hundred yards from where he watched. She had come out, looked around, and then driven away. Fouad relaxed. It had been a tough day. His contact man had not been in place when the plane arrived at 3:40
A.M.
He told the pilot where to taxi the big transport, but when they arrived in front of the hangar barely wide enough for them to enter, the big doors were closed and all the lights were off. It had taken him two hours to get his man out of bed and into action. They at last rolled the big
plane into the hangar just before daylight. They closed the doors and went to work.

That’s when the trouble with the flight crew started.

“We can’t fly out of Europe,” the pilot said. “Our company is not licensed to go any farther than Lisbon.”

“Tough, we’re going to the Azores, then to Halifax, Nova Scotia,” Fouad said.

“We can’t fly there,” the copilot said. “We’ll lose our jobs and get thrown into jail.”

“You’ll fly where I tell you to,” Fouad rasped.

The copilot roared in rage and charged at Fouad. He pulled his automatic from his belt holster, and when the copilot didn’t stop, Fouad fired twice. Both rounds hit the furious man in the chest and he fell at Fouad’s feet. The pilot rushed up and knelt beside him. He put his fingers to the man’s throat and looked up.

“He’s dead. You killed him.”

“He attacked me,” Fouad said. “No problem, you can fly the plane alone. You
will
fly it alone.” He waved the pistol at the flight engineer and the pilot. “In back, all the way back to those cargo blankets. You men get to take a nap until time for us to fly out of here. Move, I have lost my patience. Oh, carry your dead friend with you. We can’t have this blood all over the plane.”

Fouad put them on the cargo blankets, tied their hands and feet, and told them that if they made a sound, he would kill them.

“You’ll get food before we take off. Right now I have other work to get done. Be quiet, or you die. I can get a pilot anywhere to fly this old tin airplane.”

Outside the plane, Fouad checked with the two men in the hangar. They were supposed to do some repainting. The small firm’s spray guns had failed to work, and they had to repair them. An hour later the work was underway, spray painting out every sign of FAF on the plane’s sides and tall rudder.

After that they stenciled on new logos, not nearly as large, and in a gentle blue color. The letters were DAF, for Domestic Air Freight. There was a real DAF freight company in Morocco, but it seldom came this far north. The pilot wore
no uniform so that was not a problem. He had the fake credentials and certificates he needed for the plane and its destination. Now all he needed was several thousand pounds of fuel, and a flight plan. He would file the flight plan thirty minutes before his takeoff and list London as his destination. If anyone were following him, the new logo and the flight plan should send them on a false scent that would give him the free time he needed.

He had slept most of the flight to Lisbon. The galley had been stocked with enough prepared dinners for a dozen men and he’d had his choice of several different meals.

Now on to the Azores and then to Halifax. He was making progress. He had two men in Halifax who would smooth the way for him there. He planned on a quick turnaround on servicing and fueling before he headed south. North America. He was almost there. The Fist of Allah would pound the Americans into the dust within a week. That was his timetable. The rest of his men were in place and ready. All he had to do was get the bomb to its final destination and then fly away a safe distance. It would be the ultimate thrill, the rush of a lifetime. When he saw that beautiful mushroom-shaped cloud rising over an American city, he would have fulfilled his grandest dream.

Once more he checked the paint job. These modern paints dried almost instantly. Five minutes after applying them, they were dry and rock hard. He looked at his watch. The pilot and flight engineer had eaten dinners from the plane’s galley. Time to move the plane to get fuel, then his radioed flight plan and the takeoff. It was only then that he realized he hadn’t eaten since they landed. He could go to a restaurant in the terminal, but that would be one more spot where he could be recognized. His beard had not grown out as much as he had hoped it would. He went into the plane and to the refrigerated area of the galley and took out a pair of dinners. He would heat them up in the microwave and have a feast. He selected from two of the bottles of wine and settled down to his meal. When he finished, he would untie the flight crew and get the craft moving. Then in a matter of an hour they would be on the runway waiting their turn to take off.

The Fist of Allah was about to strike again, and this time the whole world would know about it and perhaps about him, depending how well he had concealed his identity. Either way it would be the crowning achievement of his life.

Remedios sat at her small desk in the jewelry store she owned in the best shopping area of Lisbon. She had three trusted employees who ran the store, which left her time to take care of any Company work that needed doing. She frowned thinking about that airplane that must have landed at the airport but then promptly become lost. Where had it gone? There was no new flight plan. She didn’t know what it carried, but it had ignited a firestorm of activity by the Company like none she had seen in years.

Her contact at the U.S. embassy had been insistent. She had tried pulling in all of her credits and favors, but nothing had worked. The phone rang, and as usual she let the manager answer it. The woman looked in her door and nodded.

Remedios picked up the phone. “Yes, this is Starlight Jewelry. How may I help you?”

“Remedios, it’s Carlos. I think I’ve found your BAC One-Eleven. There’s an old hangar I thought was still closed, a quarter of a mile over. Ten minutes ago I saw a plane pull out of there and then start the engines and taxi away. It was white but didn’t have the large red FAF on it. There were some other initials I couldn’t quite make out. It was a BAC One-Eleven I’m sure.”

“Damn, sounds like a quick paint job. Did they file a flight plan?”

“I checked with the tower just before I called. A BAC did file and listed its destination as London.”

“Thanks, Carlos. I owe you. Dinner tomorrow night at eight. Pick me up. Bye.”

She hung up and called the embassy.

The receptionist answered.

“Good afternoon, this is the United States Embassy in Lisbon. How may I help you?”

“Harvey, please.”

“Just a moment.”

“Yes?”

“Remedios. A friend saw the plane. The FAF was painted out and it had a new logo in its place but he couldn’t read the letters. The tower reports a BAC took off five minutes ago with a flight plan listing London as its next stop.”

“I doubt that,” the voice at the embassy said. “It could be going anywhere. With Fouad’s hatred of us, it’s probably heading for the Azores and then the U.S. He could do a flyover of New York City without refueling again after the Azores. He could trigger the bomb at a thousand feet and kill two million people.”

“Is he the suicide type?”

“Washington has been talking about him all morning. Their profile shows him not to be. But get him hyped on something and he could psych himself up to do it. So we’ve got to play both sides. Have you checked with air traffic control to see if there’s a BAC One-Eleven heading for the Azores?”

“We can do that?”

“Not your problem. I’ll do it. First I’ve got to contact Washington yesterday. Thanks. Out.”

Remedios hung up the phone and frowned. There was absolutely nothing else she could do.

Murdock and his team hit Lisbon twelve hours after the BAC jetliner had taken off. Murdock used a land line and called Stroh. He was back in Washington, D.C. Stroh filled the SEAL in on what they knew about the BAC.

“We have no assets in the Azores, never thought we’d need them. No chance to backstop him there. We have run out of time. If he’s twelve hours ahead of you, he’s already landed at the Azores, refueled, and could be over New York or Washington right now. If we’d known in time we could have had the Halifax authorities stop the plane for a customs inspection, or a health inspection, but it must be too late now. Always a chance the plane broke down in Halifax. We’ll give
them a call and see. We doubt he’s going to London. If it is the Azores, we can call and check. Wish us luck. As for you and your team, exchange some of your dinars and get your asses back to the States. This guy has the potential of suiciding out with a nuke blast over New York City. His plane has the range. But we don’t think he’ll do that. He must have landed in Halifax. If he’s in a rush, he would refuel and get the hell out of there fast. We have cooperation up there in Canada, but we’re not sure of the plane. We can’t flag down every BAC that comes in there. Even if he’s still there, which I doubt, he could slip through the cracks.

“He’ll need fuel. If he plans on landing in the U.S., he’ll be met at any airport in the country big enough to set the BAC down. We can do that. A top alert went out six hours ago, and every cop at every airport has a description on the plane and color. The air traffic types will watch for any BAC planes coming in. But we are probably too damn late.”

“He won’t stop in the U.S.,” Murdock said.

“Why not?”

“Al-Qaida has shown a preference for Mexico to get into the U.S. Now Canada is on higher alert since the nine-eleven disaster, where their borders were violated. He’ll go to Mexico, then pick his U.S. target, and fly to a border city nearby.”

“We’ve got it all in the think tank here. Get your tootsie out of there and on a plane. See you in my office in D.C. as soon as you get here.”

Over the Atlantic Ocean

Asrar Fouad settled into the fourth seat in the cockpit of the BAC aircraft and smiled. They were flying at thirty-four thousand feet to avoid as much as possible of the jet stream coming at them. He had held a long talk with the pilot and the flight engineer in the Azores. He had kept them inside the plane and had his gun in his hand most of the time. They said they were not authorized to fly outside of Europe. He told them they would fly the plane where he said, or they would die. He told them they all would be rich men when the flight ended. He would present each of them with fifty thousand dinars, more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. They could go back home and quit work and live in
luxury for the rest of their lives. To show his good faith, he gave each of then five thousand dinars.

It had helped quiet their concern. He told then he had paid the operators of the aircraft a huge sum for the trip, and he would not let them stop him or change his flight plans. He told them they would land in Halifax, Nova Scotia. None of them had ever been there before.

“It’s a modern airport with all the facilities,” he told them. “The Halifax air traffic controllers will find us about sixty miles at sea and bring us in.”

The pilot nodded. “That I know. Our aircraft’s transponder will pick up the incoming radar signals from Halifax and broadcast an amplified, encoded radio signal in the direction of the detected radar. Our transponder signal tells the Halifax controller the aircraft’s flight number, altitude, airspeed, and destination. We’ll show up on the radar screen as a blip with this information beside it.”

“So, we’re just another cargo plane coming into Halifax,” the engineer said as he watched the autopilot flying the plane.

“Just another one,” Fouad said. “We’ll file a flight plan for the Azores thirty minutes before we take off. I told you we can’t waste time now. We check in with the Halifax tower, get refueled, and get in line to take off. Only we don’t go back to the Azores, we head south for Nassau in the Bahama Islands.

“You said somebody might be looking for us?” the pilot asked.

“Looking, but not finding. Canada won’t be worried about us as long as we follow the procedures, and we’ll do that until we get out of their airspace.”

“But won’t the flight controllers in the U.S. pick us up?” the pilot asked.

“We’ll stay far enough off the coast so the locals won’t even see us,” Fouad said. “Say, Boston is interested in us, but can’t find us on its screens. Their ASR, Airport Surveillance Radar, can reach out sixty miles. So we’ll stay well beyond that range. They won’t worry about us because they won’t know we’re there. They are required to handle only those planes that are in their airspace.

“We have a bigger problem. Boston is the air traffic oceanantic center for the Atlantic Ocean. It maintains radio contact with planes flying across the ocean. They are supposed to report every so often with their position, their speed, and the identification. Then Boston tracks them across the ocean. But they can do that only if the plane radios in its position.”

“But we won’t do that?” the engineer asked.

“For sure we won’t do that. Air traffic doesn’t care who flies up and down the coast as long as the plane doesn’t come west into U.S. airspace. If a plane comes into that space, the Air Defense Command takes over and asks by radio who the plane is and why it’s coming in. If there is no response from the plane on the ADC radar, a pair of jet fighters scrambles and they meet the plane and find out what it is and why it didn’t respond. So we stay well out of that area.