"I agree, sir," he said urgently. "Its time to move out."
"Les, what say you?"
"I strongly recommend immediate action," Chalmers replied. Macklin clasped his fingers together and leaned his elbows on the desk. "Gentlemen, lets do it — no mistakes."
Scott and Jackie were packing for their trip to Spokane when the satellite phone rang. She answered it and then covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "It s Hartwell."
Scott nodded and continued packing.
Jackie mostly listened during the brief conversation, thanked Prost for the latest information, and put the phone down. "Some unexpected news, good and not so good."
"And?"
"The bad news first. Shayhidi is using a homemade code to send Khaliq Farkas e-mail, so we dont know what they're doing or are about to do. We'd know a lot more if Shayhidi was using encrypted messages."
"The good news?"
"Farkas is in the Idaho-Utah area. That's where the e-mail went, but they can't be more specific."
"Well, it's a start, and it tracks with the migration of terrorists coming into the area from Canada." Scott zipped his luggage closed. "Locating Farkas is the first step."
"Oh, one other thing," Jackie said. "Hartwell reminded us to keep an eye on the television."
Stretched out in the comfortable backseat of his limousine, Saeed Shayhidi adjusted the air-conditioning and paused to reflect on his good fortune. He was pleased with himself, pleased indeed. The expanded oil-shipping contract was more than he had counted on or bargained for. Now, after he assured the Libyans he had the capacity to deliver on the newly signed agreement, Shayhidi would have to locate two additional tanker ships or forfeit a $i4.3-million bonus.
The vessels would have to be supertankers, behemoths capable of carrying over seventy million gallons of crude oil. This was not going to be an easy task, given the time frame. Since there are not many idle supertankers floating around, it would cost a fortune up front, but the long-term payout looked good.
Shayhidi felt confident that he could again bribe the man who supplied his last two tankers. In the maritime shipping business, Alexi Ogarkov was known as a truly venal man who was both revered and feared by his associates. For a seabag full of unmarked cash, Ogarkov would produce the two tankers.
The pair of matched limousines were just entering the Tripoli airport ramp when Shayhidi gazed at his sleek, gleaming new plane. The third limo was parked parallel to the leading edge of the left wing of the Boeing Business Jet. The driver was carrying several large shopping bags aboard the airplane while the slender supermodel waited in the coolness of the shiny limousine.
The immaculate BBJ was shimmering in the heat rising from the blistering pavement. Through the tinted glass of his limousine, Shayhidi took a moment to gaze at his latest symbol of wealth and power. A smile of satisfaction was beginning to form on Shayhidi's face when a GPS-guided Tomahawk cruise missile slammed into his airplanes fuselage directly over the right wing root.
The horrific, blinding explosion blew the refueled airplane in half, slinging flaming debris and burning fuel in every direction. A secondary explosion caused a brilliant fireball to rise straight up, turning into black smoke as it gained altitude.
Frozen in fear, Saeed Shayhidi was thrown forward violently into the empty seats when his startled chauffeur jammed the brake pedal to the floor. The second limousine driver braked hard and swerved in an attempt to avoid Shayhidi's automobile. A second too late, he plowed into the rear of Shayhidi's limo, sending both cars sliding out of control.
Waiting inside the airplane for Shayhidi to arrive, the two pilots, the flight attendant, and the limo driver perished in the initial explosion. A third, thunderous explosion completely enveloped the burning jet in reddish-orange flames and billowing clouds of black, oily smoke. More flaming debris rained down, hitting other airplanes and bouncing off the tops of the limousines.
A smaller corporate jet, about to taxi for takeoff, caught fire when its fuel tanks were punctured by large pieces of flaming shrapnel. The panicked passengers and flight crew immediately evacuated the Sabreliner 65 and raced for cover. Innocent victims on the ramp were running for their lives, some stumbling over others in their desperate attempt to escape the burning jet fuel.
Waiting in the limousine, Rachel Portinari survived the first two earth-shattering explosions, but the vibrant young woman succumbed to the third powerful detonation.
Shayhidi was shocked speechless. His most cherished possession had been destroyed right in front of his eyes. They know. The Americans must know I was behind the QM2—but how?
Without a thought for the condition of the model, his longtime pilots, and his flight attendant, Shayhidi climbed out of the limousine and ran toward the terminal building. His trio of senior managers and the astonished limo drivers fell in step behind him while pandemonium reigned at the airport.
When the men were safely inside the structure, Shayhidi could no longer contain his rage. He began ranting and raving at the top of his voice, cursing President Macklin and the U. S. military forces for destroying his new jet. After the better part of a minute, he assumed a more coherent manner and sat down.
"If we were twenty seconds earlier, I would have been killed," Shayhidi bitterly complained while he stared at the remains of his burning plane. Firefighters were working feverishly to quell the inferno. "I would have been in the plane."
The excruciating reality cascaded through his mind. The Americans will hunt me down. What do I do? Where do I go?
He turned to his senior managers. "Get a chartered jet in here and dont use my name — move!"
"Yes, sir," the threesome said in chorus. Like lemmings, the hollow-eyed men rushed off to comply with the order. The rumors about their boss's connections to terrorist groups enveloped them in a cloud of doubt. Was Shayhidi involved in the ocean liner disaster? If so, would this attack mean the end of their lucrative jobs, their luxurious lifestyles? Their boss was an unpredictable man when he was angry. Either way, they understood their future was suddenly at risk.
Still dumbfounded by the precision missile attack, Shayhidi forced himself to breathe slowly. Fear began to fade as feelings of utter hostility swept over him. Raising both hands to wipe his face, he became aware that his hands were shaking. He crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to appear calm and collected.
A pattern of illogical thoughts began consuming him. The American president is going to rue the day he did this to me. I will show him what it is like to provoke Saeed Shayhidi.
Operating in the depths of the eastern Mediterranean Sea, the Los Angeles-class attack submarine Hartford turned on course to the U. S. Naval Base at La Maddalena, a small Italian island located off the northern coast of the island of Sardinia. The submarine s actual destination was Santo Stefano, a rocky, uncultivated island that was the home port of the U. S. Navy submarine tender USS Emory S. Land.
La Maddalena was a tourist resort, and the crew of the Hartford was looking forward to a few days of liberty while their submarine was serviced and replenished. They had just completed a successful operation, one that greatly pleased their commander in chief. In a message to the crew, President Cord Macklin assured the submariners he would provide them with a replacement Tomahawk cruise missile.
Chapter 9
Taking an afternoon walk through the Heights section of Georgetown, Jackie and Scott were discussing their flight to Spokane. They were nearing home when they became aware that something unusual was happening. Neighbors and friends were congregating in the narrow old-fashioned streets. A buzz was definitely afloat.