Other twin-engine A-10 "tank killers' from the 47th and from Davis-Monthan AFB, Arizona, were patrolling tracks and monitoring trains in the Northwest. Each jet was equipped with a single 30mm seven-barrel rotary cannon that fires milk-bottle-size rounds at a blistering pace. Many pilots who have flown the Warthog in combat claim the plane can lose one engine, half a tail, one third of a wing, and parts of the fuselage and still remain airborne.
Approaching a bend in the scenic river, Ingraham spotted a helicopter sitting directly on the tracks. The Eurocopter's rotors were turning and there were two men working beside the railroad. When the men heard the sound of the jet engines drowning the sound of the rotor blades, they glanced up at the A-10s and froze.
Ingraham keyed his radio. "Corky, see the helo on the tracks?"
"Roger, could be trouble."
"I'm going to check it out."
"Gotcha covered."
While Kamansky orbited overhead, Ingraham flew low over the men and then racked the A-10 into a steep turn around the suspicious helicopter. The men immediately dropped their tools and raced for the Eurocopter.
"We have a bite — let's go hot," Ingraham said, before he contacted the AWACS. The reply was nearly instantaneous.
"I'm rolling in hot," the flight leader said, in a calm, even voice. "Our customer looks like he needs a little off the top."
"A light trim."
The helicopter was about to lift off when Ingraham's Gatling gun ripped its tail to shreds. The beefy cannon made aluminum foil out of the enclosed tail rotor. The Eurocopter turned 90 degrees, jamming the twisted landing gear inside the railroad tracks.
"End of the line," Ingraham radioed.
Leaving the heavily damaged helicopter with the engines still running, three men emerged and sprinted for cover under the nearby fir trees.
"Boys, you shouldn't try to escape," Ingraham said under his breath. "You aren't going to like this, believe me." He rolled in again and gently squeezed the trigger. The huge cannon shells carved a wide swath in the trees about thirty feet in front of the trio. They skidded to a halt and changed directions, dodging and weaving through the fir trees.
"Corky, you have them in sight?"
"Got em."
"Your turn," Ingraham said, and then asked the AWACS controller to contact the nearest law enforcement agency.
Kamansky walked his rounds so close to the men that pieces of shredded bark and tree limbs were pummeling them. They stopped in their tracks and put their arms up, stretching them high above their heads.
With a few well-placed bursts of cannon fire, Kamansky herded them back into the open and continued to circle. A few minutes later a patrol cruiser came racing down the highway, followed shortly thereafter by a sheriff's deputy.
"Looks like this is a wrap," Kamansky radioed.
"Not exactly. Amtrak is headed this way."
Kamansky glanced up the tracks. "Perfect timing."
"I hope I didnt screw up the track," Ingraham said, as he rolled out of his orbit and shoved the throttles forward. "Cover the bad guys."
"Roger."
Approaching the train head on, Ingraham rapidly slowed the A-10 and extended the landing gear. Okay, guys, pay close attention. Haven't got a lot of time.
The shocked engineer, along with the bug-eyed passengers in the Sightseer Lounge, weren't sure what was going on when the mean-looking Warthog roared low overhead with the landing lights glaring.
Come on! Ingraham wrapped the plane around in a tight circle, rolling wings level just before he had to pull up to miss the engine.
That did the trick. The lightbulb came on and the Empire Builder began slowing, but it was going to be close.
Ingraham cleaned up the A-10 and climbed to 800 feet above the ground. The authorities had the terrorists in custody and Kamansky was circling leisurely at 1,500 feet. The train was almost stopped when it pulverized the Eurocopter, grinding it into twisted pieces of jagged metal.
The decision was made to transfer President Macklin and his staff from the E-4B to the safety of Cheyenne Mountain. However, they would delay the arrival of the 747 in Colorado Springs until more security personnel were in place. The vice presidents entourage and the joint chiefs were on their way back to Washington.
Fresh from a late-afternoon nap, President Macklin was sitting alone in his quarters when Hartwell Prost gendy knocked on the door.
"Come in."
Prost entered the compartment and wearily sat down. "Well," he began haltingly, "my good friends at the Agency are completely, totally embarrassed — again."
Macklin turned and stared out the window. "More bad news?"
"Shayhidi apparently slipped right by them when they had him cornered. They didnt know it at the time."
"Where?"
"At his hotel suite in Beaulieu-sur-Mer, France."
"What happened, what went wrong?"
"Our folks had local intelligence about his suite, but we weren't sure he was there."
"I assume he was."
"Yes, his breakfast was half eaten."
Macklin frowned and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Hartwell, I dont understand how these things keep happening, I really dont."
Chagrined, Prost remained silent.
"It makes us look really incompetent," the president said impatiendy. "Like we have a collective case of somnambulism."
"Fm fully aware of that, sir."
The president calmed himself. "The media is going to have me for lunch and then have the Agency for dessert."
"Sir, I'm sorry."
"Hartwell, its okay," Macklin said, and then softened his tone. "What happened? Give me the details."
"While we were getting our people in place, Shayhidi was whisked out of the hotel in disguise… right in front of our agents sitting in the lobby."
"How do we know that?" the president asked.
"The hotels assistant manager admitted Shayhidi was there but swore on his mother's grave that he didnt know how Shayhidi managed to disappear."
Macklin remained quiet.
"Now," Prost said with a tortured look, "after all this effort, hes disappeared and we have no leads — no idea which way he went."
"What about our people at the airport?"
"He didnt use the airport he normally frequents." Prost concealed his anger. "I apologize for this unmitigated mess."
"Its not your fault." The president tapped his friend on the forearm. "Youre not working at the Agency anymore."
Prost gently shook his head. "I know, but I don't handle things like this well. Neither do you."
"Look at it this way. The guy's running for his life." Macklin shrugged. "We're nipping at his heels and he's desperate, making mistakes and looking over his shoulder."
"True, he's definitely in a state of duress. Knows we're tracking him like a pack of hounds. But I can't handle any more screwups at Langley."
"Don't be so hard on yourself. His homes are partially destroyed," Macklin observed. "His corporate jet no longer exists, his yacht is on the bottom of the Mediterranean, his shipping empire is kaput, his entire world is in shambles, and he's being hunted like a serial killer. I doubt if he has much time to think about anything other than his personal survival."
"You're right, but I want him at the end of a rope."
"Actually," the president said lightly, "this is much worse for someone like Saeed Shayhidi, a twisted narcissist who craves the limelight. Shayhidi, who thought he was so clever, knows he has made a tragic blunder of galactic proportions." Macklin lowered his voice and clearly enunciated each word. "Shayhidi knows he made the dumbest move of his life, and he can never make it go away— ever."