Primary Target (1999) (34 page)

With eighteen radios tuned to a variety of extremely critical frequencies, they could transmit bogus orders to many flights while they blocked all communications on the other sensitive channels. The situation would not be disastrous in clear weather during the daytime because the pilots could visually confirm other conflicting traffic and take corrective measures to avoid midair collisions.

However, in inclement weather, when the flight crews are flying in instrument conditions, they can't see each other. Vectoring a number of converging aircraft toward one another, and assigning them to the same altitude in a reasonably confined area, would be chaotic and most probably catastrophic. The chances of a midair collision would be extremely high.

Placing a particular airplane--Air Force One--in a precarious position would be the easy part. Like a crapshoot, the outcome would be impossible to predict because the circumstances are beyond one's total control. But the chances of Air Force One swapping paint with another airplane were frighteningly high.

In addition to the radios, Yahyavi had purchased folding antennas that would increase the range of the radios. From their vantage point overlooking the airport boundary, they would be able to disrupt the majority of normal aviation communications and create havoc with the flow of air traffic into Atlanta/Hartsfield International.

They also had two portable radio scanners that allowed them to listen to the various aviation frequencies while they monitored policeand fire-department communications on the public service band.

"Here's an update," Yahyavi said when a revised local weather forecast came on the television.

The conditions were so bad that Delta Air Lines was reporting one-hour delays and twenty-nine of their arriving flights had been diverted to other destinations.

"Almost perfect conditions," Yahyavi said excitedly. "Who could ask for more?"

"No one," Farkas replied as a tiny grin creased his face. Yahyavi stared into the dark eyes of his accomplice. "Death to the enemies of the revolution! Death to Macklin!" "With Allahu's blessing," Farkas said bitterly, "the president of the United States will not see another sunrise."

Andrews Air Force Base, Marylan
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Among many other important missions, the Air Mobility Command's elite 89th Airlift Wing is responsible for the operations of the special aircraft used by the president, vice-president, cabinet members, members of Congress, high-ranking dignitaries, and senior members of the U
. S
. military. The dedicated men and women of the 89th pride themselves on providing the safest and very highest-quality service. Before leaving his office at Andrews Air Force Base, the 89th Operations Group commander finished his morning coffee, then stepped in front of his full-length mirror. Colonel Curtis Wayne Bolton checked his shiny black shoes, adjusted his tie, and straightened his immaculate blue tunic. Along with the silver command-pilot wings, the colorful rows of decorations were perfectly aligned and centered on his left breast.

The tall, silver-haired officer donned his hat with the scrambled-egg insignia sprawled across the visor, then closed his chart case. It was time for the presidential pilot to board Air Force One.

The flight to Atlanta's Hartsfield International Airport had been coordinated with the applicable air-traffic-control agencies, including the Andrews control tower, Washington departure control, en route air-traffic-control centers, and the appropriate Air Force command posts. Every detail of the flight had been doubleand sometimes triple-checked. Approaching the Boeing 747-200B, designated a military VC-25, Bolton returned the crisp salute of Chief Master Sergeant Willard T. Brewer. The good-natured sergeant, whose ancestors included slaves and sharecroppers from the Mississippi Delta, always greeted his pilot with a wide smile. Being associated with transporting the president to the Cornerstone Summit made Brewer's smile seem even wider than usual.

Like the rest of the crew of Air Force One, Sergeant Brewer had been individually screened and selected by Colonel Bolton. The well-organized, highly professional team represented the best of the best in the United States Air Force.

Entering the spotless state-of-the-art cockpit, Bolton was greeted by his copilot, Lieutenant Colonel Kirk Upshaw. The young, clean-cut Air Force Academy graduate was a highly motivated officer with a bright future. Upshaw's career aspirations were greatly enhanced by the fact that his father had been an Air Force combat fighter pilot who rose to be chief of staff at Supreme Headquarters, Allied Powers Europe.

"Everything ready to go?" Bolton asked Upshaw while he glanced at the navigation charts and instrument approach plates.

"All set. We have our clearance and we're ready to start engines."

"Good." Bolton gave the flight deck a cursory inspection. "I'm going to take a walk-through--see how we're doing." Upshaw nodded as he adjusted his seat.

Leaving the quiet surroundings of the cockpit, Bolton chatted with various security personnel, Secret Service agents, and members of the news media while he made his way through the giant airplane. Along the way, he took time out to visit with a group of influential black leaders and a key senator from Georgia.

The amicable politician never tired of having the opportunity to arrive in his home state aboard the royal chariot known as Air Force One. He knew the value of an appearance in the company of the president of the United States, especially to his constituents and the media. The wily and charming senator thoroughly enjoyed regaling his public with stories about the times he had coached presidents while he'd been onboard the flying White House.

Continuing his tour of the airplane, Bolton inspected the 4,000 square feet of living/working space, including the two galleys, the medical suite, the six passenger lavatories, and the mission communications center. Packed with an army of cryptographic equipment, radios, and computers, the sophisticated comm center provided worldwide secure data and voice communications. The presidential 747 also had triple redundancy in cockpit communications, including UHF and VHF radios.

Paying special attention to detail and cleanliness, the command pilot checked on the plush executive suite that provided the president and his family with a private office, dressing room, bathroom, stateroom, and conference/dining area. The personal attention to detail aboard Air Force One would rival the most prestigious hotels.

Separate accommodations were provided for aides, guests, Secret Service agents, security specialists, and representatives of the news media. The flight crew had their own lounge and minigalley.

Designed to carry seventy passengers and twenty-three crew members, the long-range 747 was equipped with nineteen television monitors, eleven VCRs, a thermonuclear shield, and eighty-five telephones. Every inch of the 238 miles of onboard wiring has been specially shielded to protect it from electromagnetic pulses that would emanate from a thermonuclear blast. The shielding also protects the wiring from more common electromagnetic interference.

Cruising at 560 mph at an altitude of 35,000 feet, the big jet could fly over 9,000 statute miles without refueling. Using the in-flight refueling capability, the presidential platform could safely remain airborne for two weeks or longer if necessary.

Bolton was pleased to see that every task and request ha
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been taken care of, including the specially prepared breakfast for the president. Fresh newspapers and magazines, excluding the publications banned by the first lady, were onboard the jumbo jet. In addition, a navigation chart with the plane's course was on the president's desk.

Even though the exterior of the airplane had been carefully preflighted, Bolton walked back down the boarding stairs to make a final inspection. After exchanging greetings with the Air Force guards and the Secret Service agents, he strolled around the outside of the flying White House.

He never failed to look at the words "United States of America" emblazoned along the fuselage of the spotless 747. With sunlight sparkling from the highly polished silver, white, and blue surface, the graphic symbol of freedom and democracy filled him with pride.

His practiced eye continued to survey the huge airplane from nose to tail and wingtip to wingtip, including the self-contained baggage loader. Bolton didn't detect any damage or blemishes, and, most important, all the essential components were securely attached to the airframe. Air Force One was ready to take to the skies.

Key Wes
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Closer to Havana than to Miami, the oddly picturesque town was coming alive when Scott and Jackie entered the gaily decorated bar and grill. They ordered the "Bone Islet" breakfast and tall Virgin Marys, then unfolded the sectional aeronautical chart and plotted the coordinates of the island home near Marathon.

"What do you think?" she asked innocently. "What if we're wrong and there isn't something sinister going on at the island?"

"That's why we're going to check it out before we contact anyone." He gave her a dismissive shrug, then looked into her eyes and smiled. "I don't want to charge in like John Wayne, then look like a fool if the place turns out to be a retreat for corporate executives."

She lowered her gaze. "You have a point." A smile spread slowly across her lips. "Bad form after our show in Lebanon."

He looked away, seeking a diversion. "That's why I'm using my rule book this time," he declared in a quiet, flat voice. "No one knows where we are, or what we're doing." Jackie chuckled. "Sometimes, I wonder what we're doing."

"That makes two of us."

The place was becoming crowded by the time Jackie and Scott finished their Virgin Marys. Less than a minute later a mousy, gum-chewing waitress delivered their fresh conch chowder and fritters to their beer-soaked wooden table. "Thanks," Scott said as he glanced at the object above his right shoulder. The saloon's soft neon glow highlighted a Ray-O-Vac leakproof battery advertisement over their booth. "Nice place," Jackie said as she surveyed a strange assortment of local Key Westers, two of whom had live lizards perched on their shoulders. "Lots of ambience--sort of a drenched-in-decadence atmosphere."

A slow grin spread across Scott's face. "Hey, look at the upside." He gestured to their collective attire. "We fit in with the crowd."

"Yeah, that's the scary part." Jackie cast a look at a rail-thin woman who was braiding another skinny woman's hair. Both of the locals were smoking cigarillos and wearing huge clear plastic earrings that flashed like strobe lights. "You'd have to be naked, wearing snowshoes and a life jacket, and have your head stuffed inside a glowing pumpkin not to fit in here."

"At least I didn't take you to the Marriott," Scott said as a mischievous smile spread across his face.

"For that, I can be thankful."

Jackie tasted her chowder and looked around. The walls were covered with endorsements for Philco appliances, Indian Motorcycles, Bell & Howell eight-millimeter movie cameras, Remington Rand typewriters, Cushman Eagle motor scooters, and a large replica of a "Harry Truman for President" campaign button. From millionaires, to the last of the hippies, to sex-starved sailors on Cinderella liberty, the bar was a gathering place for many of the characters who gravitated to the cozy little island.

"Only in Key West." Jackie laughed out loud. "Thousands of free spirits living in their own quaint little world."

"And," Scott added, "they're genuinely happy."

Jackie nodded. "Party time round-the-clock."

"That's the beauty of it," Scott remarked, then tossed a look at a drunken musician with a graying ponytail and a Taylor guitar. The man had a face that looked like it had worn out three bodies. Barely able to balance on his bar stool, the hollow-eyed crooner was doing an unconscionable injustice to a Johnny Mathis ballad while two couples stumbled and lurched around the dance floor.

"That should be a felony," Jackie said, barely able to keep a straight face. "It sounds like someone is sticking him with a cattle prod."

Scott studied the lanky singer with the fluorescent tan for a few moments. "Probably too much shock therapy."

A tall, full-bosomed waitress with a mouthful of pearl-white teeth approached their table. "Are you Scott?" "Yes."

"This just came for you," she said as she handed him a large photo mailer. "Cindy is tied up at her shop." "Thanks."

"Anytime, handsome," she said suggestively as she deliberately brushed against him.

"Very subtle," Jackie said derisively.

Scott opened the mailer and began sorting through the photos. He quickly surveyed the pictures of the island home and yacht, then stared at a photo of the helicopter for a few seconds. "Dammit," he exclaimed.

"What is it?"

"You called traffic--the Cessna we almost creamed--about the same time I noticed the flag on the helo." "And?"

He pulled back and looked at her. "Take a gander at this," Scott said as he shoved the picture across the table. "That was what was bothering me after we flew away. I couldn't remember if the flag's green, white, and red stripes were vertical or horizontal."

"Mexico's stripes are vertical--same with Italy," Jackie said as she studied the photo, then stopped and stared at Scott. "That's an Iranian flag!"

"Let's go," Scott said as he gathered the pictures together.