"Most of his remaining ships have docked at their nearest port. Some of the facilities, for security reasons, have refused entrance to any of Shayhidi's ships."
The president nodded. "We'll take all the help we can get."
"From what we understand, one freighter captain and his entire crew abandoned ship in the middle of the Arabian Sea. They were taken aboard another freighter."
The president's eyes reflected his pleasure. "Where's the ship now?"
"It's adrift approximately two hundred miles southwest of Bombay. We have a sub, Connecticut, closing in as we speak."
"Our new Seawolf-class boat?"
"Yes, sir. The skipper is an old friend, a good man."
"Well. it would seem to me the Shayhidi ship is a hazard to navigation; cant have that."
"Youre absolutely right," Prost said, a twinkle in his eye.
"Lets give your friend some work to do: Sink the ship."
"Yes, sir." Prost turned to Adair and Chalmers, quietly conveyed Macklins order, and again faced his boss. "The downside to our progress is that Shayhidi got away, vanished into thin air."
"The CIA had a positive ID on him, didnt they?"
"Yes, sir." It was evident that Prost was off stride. "They swear its true — had him tagged. Two agents identified him with night-vision binoculars, and no one left the premises before the special ops people stormed the place."
The president flexed his jaw muscles. Tm sorry, Hartwell, but that just doesn't make sense. It doesn't compute."
"I know, but the Agency swears he was in the chalet."
"What exactly did Delta Force find?"
"Two armed guards, who were quickly dispatched, and Shayhidi's domestic help. Nothing else."
"Did they check the attic and basement?"
"Yes, sir — thoroughly — in the short time they were there. Shayhidi's bed in the master bedroom had been slept in, but he'd simply disappeared into the night."
Macklin glanced away for a moment and then cast his eyes toward Prost. "Something's missing here. I want the CIA, whatever resources it takes, to inspect that house inch by inch."
"Yes, sir."
"Tell them to take it apart board by board to find the answer, if they have to."
"I'll take care of it."
The president reached for a cigar and offered Prost a smoke. "What about the other homes, his primary residence in Geneva?"
"The house in Geneva has been gutted, but we had two people wounded, one seriously." Hartwell paused when an aide stepped in to deliver a message to the secretary of defense. "It could have been much worse if the Army Pathfinders had not done such a superb job of scouting the Shayhidi compound."
"How so?"
"They worked a local stool pigeon for intelligence about the house, the grounds, and the security measures. The guy delivered groceries. The place was guarded like a fortress, including shoulder-fired SAMS and an unknown number of land mines."
"Land mines? You re kidding."
"No, sir," Prost answered, lighting his cigar. "The stoolie told them he thought there were probably ten to fifteen people guarding the place. Some were new hires from a local security firm. He possibly— probably — saved some lives on our side."
The president caught Adair's imploring look. "Hold on a second, Pete."
SecDef nodded.
"What about the other homes?" Macklin asked.
"The chateau in the south of France and the villa near Cartagena will undoubtedly be listed in the fixer-upper section of the real estate brochures."
"Excellent," Macklin said, and turned to Adair. "From the look on your face, I guess I'd better prepare myself for more bad news."
SecDef's voice betrayed his tension. "Two more passenger trains have been attacked — blown off their rails like Matchbox toys."
"Where?"
"The Amtrak Cascades near Portland and the Empire Builder near Libby, Montana. There are a number of casualties at both sites."
The president glanced at General Chalmers and then Prost. "Any suggestions?"
Hartwell swore to himself. "Attack helicopters, army and marine gunships, from the Rocky Mountains throughout the entire Northwest."
"I like it," the president said. "Let's have them on site ASAP."
Prost continued with a sense of urgency. "We could use Civil Air Patrol units to help watch the tracks."
"Good idea!" Chalmers exclaimed. "The more eyeballs we have in the air, the better our chances of catching them in the act. We can use our A-10 Warthogs and F-15 Strike Eagles to supplement the attack helicopters."
The president finally lit his cigar. "Let's get on it, coordinate this well so everyone knows where the other players are. We don't want any midair collisions while we're trying to save lives on the ground."
"Constant communications," Prost said firmly. "And mandatory radio calls at designated checkpoints to keep things orderly."
General Chalmers looked first at Prost and then at the president. "I'll have it operational by early morning. Well use night-vision equipment, keep the bad guys honest day and night."
"Go to it," Macklin said, and then paused. "By the way, how are our ordnance stockpiles coming along at our bases in the Middle East?"
Chalmers had the numbers memorized. "We have an almost continuous stream of aircraft arriving at al-Udeid and our bases adjacent to the Red Sea. In addition, we have eighteen cargo ships shuttling weapons. We have enough on hand now to sustain operations for twelve to fourteen months."
"Excellent." The president looked at Pete Adair. "With the air strikes were planning in Iran and Afghanistan, whats the status of our munitions production rate?"
"We have more than doubled the production rate of laser-guided bombs and boosted production at three ammunition factories to their highest levels in seventeen years. They've increased the output of precision-guided bombs from one thousand a month to over three thousand. These increases have tripled the lethality of our carrier battle groups."
"Well," Macklin conceded, with a trace of a smile, "at least something is going well. What about Tomahawks?"
"They've added a third shift and production has nearly doubled. We believe the Tomahawks, supplemented with the precision-guided bombs, can last for at least six to seven months."
A pleased look spread across the president's face. "On that note, I think I'll rest before dinner."
After a delay caused by inclement weather, Scott and Jackie checked out of the Airport Hilton and had breakfast at a local Denny's, having dispensed with their wings and epaulets in favor of denim shirts and fishing vests. They drove their rental car to the Million Air FBO, loaded their supplies and fishing gear into the Caravan, and departed for beautiful Lake Mead.
With CAVU weather — clear and visibility unlimited — Scott leveled off at 1,000 feet. "While we re going in the general direction of the lake, lets check all airports with runways longer than four thousand feet. See if we find anything interesting."
"Okay, 111 circle them."
Scott engaged the autopilot and poured each of them a cup of coffee. Following Interstate 15, they proceeded southwest over the Fishlake National Forest. Scott descended into valleys to check the airports and then climbed over the mountains to the next valley. They found nothing suspicious.
The low-flying Caravan was burning a lot of jet fuel, and by the time they reached the Dixie National Forest, Jackie was ready to land and stretch her legs. "Let's check the Bryce Canyon airport and then land at Cedar City for fuel."
"Sounds good."
Taking in the view of the scenic national park, they circled high above Bryce Canyon Airport. Jackie raised her binoculars and surveyed the airfield and the parked aircraft while they made two wide 360-degree turns. "I dont see anything interesting, except the canyons."
"Then we're off to Cedar City."