Return to Honor (13 page)

Woodstone looked quickly around the room. “How about negotiations? There must be someone we can call. Someone who has influence.…the Russians? Someone get a hold of President Akulov. He’ll have an idea.…”

A cough came from his left. General Peters’ four stars gleamed on each shoulder as he spoke. “Mr. Vice President?”

Woodstone looked wild-eyed at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “General?”

“Sir, if I may make a suggestion—”

“What about the Russians?”

“Mr. Vice President, the Russians have just about as much influence in Do’brai as we do. Remember when they tried to move into Do’brai with their advisors and economic aid, and how they were told to go to hell by President Ash’ath only two years ago? Also, President Akulov is the
last
person we should tell that our President is missing.”

Woodstone seemed to catch breath. He hesitated and sank back in his chair. “You’re right. Please continue, General.”

“Thank you.” Peters looked around the room and placed his hands on the table. “If indeed the President’s plane is heading to Do’brai, BIGEYE projects it as landing in two hours. They’ve had a five-hour head start on us, meaning it would take seven hours for our closest jets to reach him.”

Baca lounged in his chair and spoke over the murmuring. “Where would our jets come from, General?”

“The
Kennedy
is off of Cyprus right now. Its F-14 Tomcats could make it to Do’brai in about five to seven hours. But they’d have to be refueled. To get tankers into the area would take another six hours as they’d be coming out of Torrejon. And with our fighters low on fuel, it would take hours to turn them around as well.”

The silence prompted Peters to continue. “If we launched a rescue”—he waved a hand, silencing the protests that began to sprout—“if we launched a rescue, the C-17, our fastest transport plane, would take over nine hours to get there from Ramstein. So we’re stuck. If we want to get to the President within the next twelve hours, we have to launch right now. We have to make a decision and
move
, gentlemen.”

Baca rapped on the table for attention. “General, this administration has prided itself on taking the moral high ground on human issues. I sincerely believe if we were to commit our military to a rescue attempt that is hastily thrown together, the consequences would greatly outweigh any perceived gains.”

“I realize that, Mr. Baca. But we can always call these planes back. All we have to do is load our troops on board and at least get into the air—”

“No, you don’t understand, General. We haven’t had any contact with Air Force One for over three hours now. All we have is the intelligence gathered from our space station, and they’re not even sure that the plane they’ve spotted is Air Force One. Can you begin to imagine the repercussions if we were to launch a planeload of Green Berets to storm Do’brai and discovered that what we thought was Air Force One was actually President Ash’ath’s private jet? Maybe he’s flying in a planeload of cheese from France.”

Peters snorted. “With his transponders off?”

“And I say how do we know for sure, General? How the hell are we supposed to read President Ash’ath’s mind?”

“Gentlemen!” Woodstone sounded tired, but he had finally calmed down. He looked beat and wasn’t in the mood for arguments. “Gentlemen, I have to agree with Mr. Baca—we’re not even sure it is the President’s plane that BIGEYE spotted. I think we should relax and calmly discuss all the possibilities. After all, we may be worrying about nothing.”

General Peters raised his voice. “Mr. Vice President, I
must
advise you that the prudent step would be to launch some aircraft—tankers, fighters, and maybe a couple of transports—just in case.”

“Your advice has been noted, General.” Woodstone’s face seemed to regain some of the color it had lost. “Gentlemen, I suggest we break for something to eat and assemble here on the hour. Any other ideas?” Woodstone pushed himself up. “Very well, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

“Mr. Vice President?” Colonel Welch slammed the door behind him as he entered the room.

“Colonel, we’re just taking—”

“Mr. Vice President, we’ve intercepted an urgent message—”

“In a
moment,
Colonel.”

“Now,
sir. It’s from BIGEYE. They’ve intercepted another message sent from Do’brai to Kapuir. Because of the increased coded radio traffic, the NSA thought that Do’brai was running the show—setting something up in Kapuir—and this confirms it. It concerns the President.”

“Let me see that.” Woodstone grabbed the sheet. As he read he sank into his chair. The room was silent as he scanned the paper. He read it twice before letting it drop to the table. “Good Lord … oh, my …”

Baca frowned. “Mr. Vice President?”

Woodstone’s voice broke. “It’s an NSA intercept from the ALH at Do’brai. It says Air Force One will arrive within the next two hours. And as soon as the ALH plane arrives and is refueled the President will be flown to Kapuir, where he will be publicly executed for his ‘crimes against humanity.’” Woodstone closed his eyes. “They’re going to kill him and broadcast the execution.”

“When? Does it say when the execution is?”

“As soon as they reach Kapuir.”

Colonel Welch spoke up. “If the ALH plane arrives in Do’brai on time, in six hours the President will be back in the air.…and allowing three hours for the flight to Kapuir, in nine hours the President will die.”

Woodstone closed his eyes. Baca leaned over the table and spoke to General Peters in a low, firm voice. “How long would a fighter squadron from the
Kennedy
take to reach Do’brai?”

“Seven hours.”

Baca blew up. “We’ve spent five hundred billion dollars over the last six years modernizing the armed forces, and you’re saying it takes our front-line fighters seven friggin’ hours to fly a route an airliner takes
six
hours to fly?”

General Peters kept his cool.
“Mr.
Baca, seven hours allows for our tankers to rendezvous with the fighters. We have to allow time for the planes to scramble, fuel, and calculate their flight plans. These planes are not on alert. At top speed, the ’14s have a range of far less than two thousand miles, and if we want to have them armed, we’ll need the tankers. What good would a fighter squadron do if they didn’t have enough fuel to accomplish their mission?”

“But surely the
Kennedy
has tankers that can accompany the fighters—”

“Your administration turned that responsibility over to the air force last year.…to save money,” Peters finished softly. “But there is another way—”

Woodstone spoke, his face flushed. “We’ll shoot the bastards down. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll intercept the sons of bitches before they get to Kapuir and we’ll fry their asses. They can’t get away with this—”

“Mr. Woodstone.” Baca stood and walked around the table. He was pale. “Mr. Woodstone, as Vice President you have the ultimate authority to make a decision. Right now,
please
listen to what the general has to say. I don’t like this any more than you do. It was on my suggestion, in fact, that the in-flight refueling capabilities of the
Kennedy
be cut back, but pointing fingers won’t solve anything now. This is no time for ideological arguments.

“If Colonel Welch is correct in his estimates, for all practical purposes we can consider the President dead in six hours. Once the President boards that plane to Kapuir, there is nothing we can do to save him.

“So if there is anything General Peters can come up with, no matter how scatterbrained it sounds, we’ve got to go with it. Now. No bickering, no arguing.” He shut his mouth and looked around. Perspiration rolled down his forehead; he wiped it away with a swipe from his sleeve, then sat down abruptly.

Peters waited a moment, then nodded slightly at Baca before turning to Woodstone. “Mr. Vice President, there is a marine unit training at Camp Pendleton, the Rapid Deployment Force, which uses the air force’s Trans-Atmospheric Vehicles to lift them into the combat zone. The unit has been training to capture enemy command posts and other high-level enemy targets during a full-scale war. They aren’t rescue troops, but—”

Baca interrupted. “How fast can they get there?”

“If I give the order now, the troops could load up the TAVs in one and a half hours. The TAVs take forty-five minutes to get anywhere in the world, so we could get to the President in less than three hours—”

“Which leaves us three additional hours of cushion.” Baca turned to Woodstone. “Mr. Vice President, I respectfully request that you allow General Peters to give the order to send that marine unit out. We don’t have much time; we must act now.”

Peters waved at Colonel Welch to bring him a secure phone. As the colonel carried the phone the line trailed behind him.

Woodstone hesitated. He shook his head. “But sending in troops … my God, I’m not sure that Congress would allow it.”

“
Now
, Mr. Woodstone. We’re running short of time. If you let Congress in on this, they’ll debate it for days.”

Peters interjected, “The least you could do is have the troops load up. The TAVs can orbit on the mother ship and not actually launch until you’ve given it a little more thought. The important thing is to get the men airborne. It will only take forty-five minutes to get to Do’brai once you give the final go-ahead.”

“Forty-five minutes?” Woodstone closed his eyes. “How many TAVs would this take?”

“There are seven TAVs; four are on alert to go at any one time.”

“Send two of them.” Woodstone opened his eyes. “Only have two of them go, and wait for my order to commit. I want some time to think this over.”

Peters was speaking on the phone as the Vice President finished. Baca protested. “Mr. Woodstone, sending only two TAVs cuts the rescue chances in half—”

“Two, Mr. Baca. I’ve made my decision. I want to keep this to a minimum in case we have a debacle.…like those for which the military is famous.”

Chapter 7

0030 ZULU: SATURDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER

The act of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can, and keep moving.

Ulysses S. Grant

When you appeal to force, there’s one thing you can never do—lose.

Dwight D. Eisenhower

Do’brai

As Air Force One rolled to a stop the engines wound down from their high-pitched whining to a deep, dull roar. The windows in the President’s chamber were still sealed, so Montoya couldn’t tell if it was light or dark outside.

His captor smiled widely. Moments before the plane landed, the steward had conversed in rapid-fire language with whoever was on the other side of the intercom. The language was not the clipped dialect of Tagalog that the Filipino stewards used, but it still was vaguely familiar to Montoya’s ear.

The steward seemed to relax once the plane touched down. Montoya didn’t try to pry any information from his kidnapper. His cheek still ached from where he had been kicked. The pain in his groin was gone; all that remained was a dull pounding. He had somehow suppressed the pain, blocking out any feeling from his lower torso because of the agony.

The steward stood and motioned Montoya to do likewise. Montoya pushed himself up with effort. He stretched sore muscles and momentarily tried to work out a cramp that grew in his leg, but a sharp retort from the steward straightened him.

“When the door opens, do not try to escape.” The steward motioned with his eyes to the switch he held, still connected to the vat of explosives. “If anything goes wrong, you will die.”

Montoya started to speak but, remembering the beating he’d taken, decided against it.

Long minutes passed; sporadic yelling and bumps against the wall jolted Montoya out of the lull he started to experience. It sounded like fighting in the corridor.

Finally, a light tapping came at the door. The steward moved close and put his ear against the panel; a muffled shout came from the other side.

“Hail.”
The steward unlocked the door with his free hand and swung the door open; a man pushed through. He held the steward’s shoulders, and they looked each other up and down. “Hujr …”

The steward bent his head.
“Labbayka Allahwnmah,
General Kamil.”

The two broke into grins and hugged each other. The steward squatted next to the vat and gingerly removed the electrodes buried in the explosive.

The newcomer called General Kamil carefully picked up the vat and arming device, left through the door, and returned without the device moments later. Again Hujr hugged the General, keeping the embrace for several seconds before speaking.

Montoya couldn’t make out what was said, but several of the words caught his attention. References to a Boeing 777 and television were the only words Montoya understood. The two conversed quietly for some time until Hujr abruptly nodded and left the compartment, neither looking back nor acknowledging Montoya when he left. His exit was unhampered by any resistance.

Only then did General Kamil turn to the President. He slowly looked Montoya up and down. “So this is the famous President of the United States of America. The most powerful man on earth—supplier of arms and weaponry to the highest bidder, and yet so full of moral righteousness. You do not look so powerful now. What do you have to say about that?”

Montoya remained stone-faced. General Kamil grinned at Montoya’s silence, showing smoke-stained teeth that vividly enhanced his dark, deep-set eyes. A uniform, tight-fitting and ornately decorated, covered every inch of his body except for the head. “So, for once the great American President is speechless. You had better think up a good speech soon, Mr. President. You will soon have the whole world listening to you.”

“Who are you, and what are you going to do with my crew?” It was the first time Montoya had spoken in several hours; he was surprised at the harshness in his voice.

“Eh? So you can speak. Hujr told me he had broken your spirit.”

Montoya braced himself for a beating, but when the Kamil did not strike him he spoke again.

“What have you done with the passengers?”