Primary Target (1999) (31 page)

Working with Hartwell Prost and senior White House aides, Scott had arranged for an Air Force C-141 Starlifter staffed with medics to meet their helo in Athens. The long-range Lockheed workhorse would transport Greg and Maritza to the National Naval Medical Center at Bethesda, Maryland.

Scott and Jackie would accompany their friends to the naval hospital, then fly commercially to Miami to start searching the Florida Keys for the terrorist base of operations. Scott glanced at Jackie, then gave her a mischievous smile. "Are you comfortable with Hartwell's proposal?"

"Sure," she said lightly, "if I don't think about the fact that this yacht is carrying a nuke."

"Put it out of your mind."

"Right, and stop breathing at the same time."

They remained quiet while Jackie scanned for traffic. "Someone gave Shakhar's people a heads-up," Scott declared in a flat voice. "This time no one will know how we're conducting the operation. It's just you and me and our seaplane."

Catching sight of another low-flying helicopter, Jackie made a slight course correction. "So, when did you get your seaplane rating?"

"Last summer," he said nonchalantly. "I thought it would be an efficient way to complete my biennial flight review." A knowing smile broke across Jackie's tanned face. "How much float time do you have?"

Dalton gave her a sheepish grin. "About five hours--enough to get my rating. What about you?" "Zilch-point-zero."

"That's no problem," Scott said with undisguised bravado. "I'll teach you everything you need to know."

"That's what I'm afraid of." She laughed, then rolled her eyes in his direction. "Has it occurred to you that you don't meet the insurance requirements to rent a floatplane?"

"When you're working with the Agency," he said in mock seriousness, "you don't need to rent things."

"Oh," she said with a slow smile. "Let me guess. We're going to use one of the toys they've confiscated from the bad guys."

"Actually, it belonged to a seaplane operator who was a little light on his tax returns. The friendly boys at the IRS gave it to the CIA." A look of satisfaction settled over his face. "I'm going to handle this through an old friend from the Agency, so no one but the three of us will know about the arrangement."

"How reliable is your friend?"

"Like the sun coming up in the east."

"That sounds reasonable," she said as they flew over a cruise ship. A few moments passed before Jackie gazed at Scott, her attention focused on his eyes. "At the risk of hurting your pride, I feel compelled to raise an obvious question."

Scott gave her a look of amused indulgence. "You have no confidence in me, right? Is that what you're about to say?" Jackie arched an eyebrow. "Between the two of us," she said with a straight face, "we have little to zero experience in floatplanes. Wouldn't it be easier and safer if we used a helicopter?"

He hesitated, then smiled broadly and stretched his arms. "And take all the adventure out of it?"

"Seriously."

"We could use a helo," he explained, "but floatplanes and amphibians are a lot more prevalent in the Keys. We need to blend with the surroundings, do the reggae thing--look like free spirits who belong there."

"Parrotheads?" she mused.

"Something like that."

"If you say so, Cap'n." Jackie smiled evenly. "I just want to be on record when we crawl out of the wreckage." "Duly noted." He chuckled.

"What kind of plane are we going to use?"

"A Maule M-7 on amphibious floats--the same kind I got my rating in--so we're in good shape."

"Yeah, right," she said with typical honesty. "I seem to remember words to that effect in Athens."

Scott's slow smile reflected his usual air of confidence. "He is lifeless who is faultless."

"Too much luck often dulls one's perspective," she suggested gently. "Another old proverb."

"Perhaps," he agreed with a dismissive shrug. "In any event, we're going to use my rule book this time."

She inclined her head to him. "Your book has no rules." "You got it."

Jackie checked the engine instruments and turned to Scott. "What are your plans for Thanksgiving?"

He gave her a quizzical look and slowly smiled.
w
hat--five months away?"

"I like to plan ahead."

"I haven't made any plans." He grinned. "You have something in mind?"

"How about having dinner with me at my parents' home?" "Sure," he said with a surprised look. "I'd be honored." "Not so fast," she said with a chuckle. "You haven't met my parents."

Chapter
30

Washington, D
. C
.

The handpicked Marine guards assigned to the White House had exchanged their dress uniforms for battle fatigues and machine guns. With the commander in chief a target of embittered militants, the grounds of the White House were being patrolled by two highly trained platoons of Marines. Led by seasoned first lieutenants, the "tough as nails" veterans specialized in counterterrorism.

Inside the White House, Secret Service agents refined their plans to spirit the president from the Oval Office in the event of an attack by terrorists. At the first indication of an assault, an agent would push a panel on a wall adjacent to the president's rest room, causing a secret door to slide open. A staircase leading down to a brightly lit tunnel provided the president a means of escape to his private elevator, or another exit near an office that had once served as the White House barbershop.

The risk of further conflict with Iran had sent a shudder through the financial capitals of the world. Concern over who would eventually control the Strait of Hormuz had caused oil futures on the Chicago commodities market to triple in value. Reporting the conflict in great detail, the media anchors and pundits were generally lukewarm to President Macklin and his handling of the situation. World reaction t
o
the attack on Iran had been sharply divided, with many nations in the Middle East fearful of a major war erupting in the Gulf region.

The Jockey Club in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel presented a logistical nightmare for the Secret Service, but the president and the first lady insisted on having lunch at least twice a month at the famed power-crowd watering hole. Regardless of the situation in the Persian Gulf, Macklin remained adamant about projecting a calm, relaxed demeanor to the public.

Playing their usual roles in the kitchen and in the dark-paneled dining room, six agents went about their duties dressed as captains, waiters, and busboys. Near the heavy glass door just off the hotel's small lobby, other agents disguised as high-powered Washington insiders and hotel bell captains watched for any signs of trouble.

Earlier, before the club opened, the restaurant had been thoroughly checked for eavesdropping devices and other intelligence-gathering paraphernalia. Satisfied that the club was sanitized, the Secret Service had given the president the standard spiel about lip-readers. In public, Macklin and his wife generally kept their conversations light and pleasant, especially with respect to sensitive matters that could compromise his administration. Today would not be one of those days.

Seated at Table 14, a cozy corner retreat where a couple could dine and not only see, but be seen, the president and his attractive wife were enjoying a glass of wine with their chicken salad. A shapely brunette a decade younger than her husband, Maria Eden-Macklin sat with her long legs discreetly crossed at the ankles. Self-schooled to project the proper image of a first lady, Maria's face seldom reflected anything other than a pleasant expression when she was seen in public. Today, however, the retired foreign correspondent was having a difficult time keeping her emotions beneath the surface.

Maria pushed up the elbow-length sleeves of her tailored designer suit, smiled, then leaned closer to the president and whispered in his ear. "May I speak frankly?"

The president returned her smile and sipped his Chardonnay. "You always do," he said with a chuckle.

She raised her wineglass to conceal her lips. "I don't think you should press your luck." She smiled in a faintly autocratic manner. "You should be forthright about the submarine. If it's missing, have Pete go on television and admit it." "Maria," the president said lightly, "you know this isn't the time"--he glanced around the room--"or the place to bring up that subject. We'll discuss it later in private." "You have a full schedule until late this evening," she declared in a quiet, firm voice. "We need to talk about this now, before someone leaks it to the press. Pete needs to be honest about the situation."

"It isn't quite that simple." Macklin maintained a hint of a smile and talked in a hushed voice. "Pete and Les don't want to unnecessarily alarm the families of the crew, in case Hampton makes contact in the next day or two."

Briefly, Maria studied her husband. "If something has happened to it, you're going to come across as deceitful. Remember the Trident that sailed to the wrong station in the Pacific and hid for more than a week?"

"Maria, not now," he said impatiently.

"It was rigged for quiet," she hastily continued, "and so deeply submerged that it wasn't able to send or receive messages?"

"They could receive signals by slow underwater methods." Again she raised her wineglass to her lips. "Not if the sender is thousands of miles away."

"Let's drop it," the president insisted.

"For nine days," she said in a hushed voice, "the United States Navy was missing a Trident nuclear-missile submarine and no one had any idea where it was."

"Okay, so a mistake was made," he said with a trace of irritation. "No one likes to admit things like that."

"What's more," she went on, "a shrewd reporter got wind of the story and embarrassed the Navy and the White House. Don't be deceitful," she quietly admonished. "You're the commander in chief."

Macklin returned a casual wave from the chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. "We're going to roll the dice," the president said under his breath. "If it's just a communications failure, then we're okay. No one is going to get upset."

"If it hasn't been a communications problem," she suggested, barely moving her lips, "then what?"

The president felt the hard probe of her gaze. "Then I'll do what I have to do. I respect their advice."

"Even if they're wrong?"

"They're advisers, not prophets." He sensed her faint recoil and reached for her hand. "I appreciate your concern, you know that."

She nodded and raised an eyebrow, then gazed around the room while she asked a question. "If you ask Pete to resign, will he do it gracefully?"

"I'm sure he would," Macklin answered, surprised by the question. "Why do you ask?"

She reached for her napkin and lightly touched the edge of her mouth. "The mood on the Hill is ugly. They're going to want someone's head at the hearings." Maria smiled at two well-heeled socialites as they rose to leave. "They're going to make it tough for Pete, and probably Les, too. You'll be next if you don't shake up the Pentagon and the White House to feed the wolves."

"Maria," the president said in a low, even voice as he acknowledged a senior senator. "Try not to frown."

With a catlike gleam in her eyes, she smiled as if he'd just told her an amusing story, then lowered her voice. "We've been humiliated in Iran twice, and this situation has the potential to be a much bigger debacle than Desert One."

The first lady was referring to the three Marines and five airmen who died in 1980 while attempting to rescue fifty-two American hostages from the Ayatollah Khomeini. The accident happened when a C-130 tanker plane and a helicopter collided in the staging area after a sandstorm and mechanical problems caused the mission to be aborted.

"No one knows that better than I do," Macklin retorted in a hushed voice as he glanced around the room.

"Now," she declared with a troubled look, "one of our newest aircraft carriers is being towed to a shipyard, and we can't account for one of our nuclear submarines. It makes you look incompetent."

"Maria, please," the president said a shade defensively.

She calmly ignored him and raised her wineglass. "It's embarrassing to us as a nation, and the committee is going to hold you personally responsible."

"They should hold me responsibile," Macklin stated emphatically, and finished the last sip of his wine. Running his fingers back and forth over the red and white tablecloth, the president thought about the members of the Senate Armed Services Committee. To a person, Macklin respected them, but he knew they weren't going to cut him any slack just because of his strong support for the military.

He studied his wife's aqua-blue eyes. "Maria, I don't want you to worry about this situation."

"I'm not worried about the situation--I'm worried about you," she declared, and then spoke more softly. "The hearing will be extremely contentious. You know that."

"Yes, I do."

"It could cost you a second term in office."

There was a long silence.

"I don't think so," Macklin finally said. "They clearly understand that the security of the Persian Gulf is vital to the United States, and to the economic well-being of the world. They also know that things can go wrong during military operations."