"Well, that's one consolation." A faint smile touched Hartwell's mouth. "There is one piece of good news to report this afternoon."
"Good news," Macklin said with a soft chuckle. "Better get the doctor in here before you tell me any good news."
Prost explained about the A-10 pilots and the dynamite being buried under the railroad tracks.
"That is good news," the president said energetically. "We finally nailed them first. Have they been turned over to the FBI?"
"Not yet. Probably in the next hour or so."
"Good." Macklin stretched his arms and stifled a yawn. "What's our ETA in Colorado Springs?"
"Three-twenty A. M."
"What's the status of our strikes in Iran and Afghanistan?"
"The final briefing is in progress, the weather looks good, and the combined air operations center has reported that the mission is on schedule."
"Excellent. Keep me informed."
"Yes, sir."
The first strike on significant Middle Eastern air defenses was launching from the carrier. The E-2C Hawkeye was airborne and the F-14S and F/A-18S were being catapulted at a rapid rate. A second strike package was preparing to take to the skies when the first wave of aircraft were inbound to the carrier. A third strike would take off five hours later.
Many of the military's older unmanned aerial vehicles were being sacrificed to stimulate air defenses so they could be tagged and engaged. The Hunters, Pioneers, Gnat 750s, and the first generation of Predators were serving as decoys in high-risk areas. The disposable UAVs would remain on station until they were shot down or ran out of fuel.
F-15E Strike Eagles, A-10 Warthogs, and F-16 Vipers were tasked to hit primary targets between the strikes from Stennis. The schedule would alternate, with some strikes following on the heels of others while intervals went by with little activity at certain locations. The missions would be flexible, but never more than two hours would pass without a harassment flight of a two-plane section or a division of four aircraft. Search-and-rescue aircraft and helicopters would be on station for every attack.
Chapter 20
After an extended fuel stop in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, Saeed Shayhidi's chartered Falcon 900EX touched down at the Pochentong International Airport. The capital of Cambodia, Phnom Penh, lies at the junction of the Basak, Sab, and Mekong river systems in the south-central region of the country.
Jumpy and tired from his many close calls with the Great Satan, Shayhidi ignored the flight crew and walked straight to his waiting limousine. He sat in the air-conditioned comfort of the stretched Cadillac while his luggage was loaded into the trunk.
The twenty-minute ride to his hotel gave Shayhidi ample time to reflect on the decisions he had made after his narrow escape from the CIA agents in France. The communications center in the long-range Falcon had been put to good use. Of course, Shayhidi had no idea that Echelon Two was listening to his conversations.
First on his agenda: cosmetic surgery, changing the color of his hair, assuming a different identity, and opening new bank accounts. He would have to trust his most senior executive, Ahmed Musashi, the man he had put in charge of his vast empire. In addition, Shayhidi would have to alter his style of dress and his arrogant demeanor.
Impulsively Shayhidi opened the limousines well-stocked bar. He filled a crystal glass with ice cubes and poured three fingers of Chivas Regal scotch. He swirled the amber liquid and then tossed it back in one swift motion.
Lost in his misery and despair, Shayhidi stared blankly out the window at the maze of traffic. Every time he began to feel the least shred of confidence returning, the gnawing reality of what he had done resurfaced. He fixed another stiff drink and ruminated about his predicament, how rapidly everything had unraveled. The swift descent from having his life and businesses well-organized and running smoothly to utter chaos was unfathomable. As hard as he tried, he could not face the simple fact that he had made some very poor decisions.
When the limousine arrived at the Hotel Le Royal, Shayhidi was pleased with the accommodations. Located in the heart of Phnom Penh, the elegant hotel occupied an entire city block and was situated amid fragrant tropical gardens. Opened in 1929 in a structure that was a blend of Art Deco, Khmer, and French architecture, the hotel offered eight restaurants and bars featuring a wide variety of cuisines.
Checking in under an assumed name, Shayhidi paid cash in advance for a three-week stay in their best suite. That would provide enough time to have his newly leased luxury villa refurbished and furnished. He had not seen the home, but the description he had been given while aboard the Falcon sold him on the residence.
In his suite and alone, Shayhidi's alcohol-induced confidence completely dissolved. Traces of paranoia were beginning to surface. What if the crew on the Falcon were informers for the Americans? What if someone in the lobby recognized me? The thoughts were flooding his mind so fast he could barely cope. Since leaving Princeton, Shayhidi had been constantly surrounded by bodyguards and his entourage of self-seeking male and female flatterers.
It was unnerving to be suddenly alone, totally alone. There was no one around to flatter him, no one stepping and fetching at his command. For Shayhidi, the sensation was like solitary confinement, albeit in a first-class prison. No bodyguards who had been vetted, no companions to party with, no servants to abuse, no attention from his followers, nothing but emptiness, loneliness, and paranoia. I have all this money, but I have to hide from the world. What have I done?
He called room service and demanded more Chivas Regal and a wide array of food, making it clear that he wanted his order delivered as quickly as possible. After three waiters hustled the spread to his suite, he ate and drank voraciously until he felt mellow and comfortable. He wanted a female companion, a beautiful young Asian woman, to keep him entertained, but he was too tired at the moment.
Mentally and physically, he was exhausted. After another double scotch, Shayhidi collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep, tranquil sleep. When he awakened with a savage hangover, he returned to the dark side of his existence.
He drank more Chivas and then called his contact in Geneva. This trusted friend was his link to Ahmed Musashi. After conversing with Musashi, the friend would get back to him. Shayhidi had no idea how really difficult life was going to get in the near future.
After they landed at Boulder City, Jackie again tried to contact Hartwell Prost while Scott refueled the Caravan from the self-service pump. The call to Prost would not go through. She waited a few minutes and tried again with the same results.
"You look frazzled," Scott said, while he cleaned the Caravans windshield.
"Fve been trying to get in touch with Hartwell — see what his priority is — but I cant get through."
"Let s take off," Scott suggested. "Gain some altitude in a different location and try again."
Minutes later, they were climbing through 3,000 feet and Jackie again called Prost. He answered on the third ring. After an unusually lengthy conversation, Jackie signed off.
"What s the plan?"
"Hartwell wants us to work with Wakefield on the houseboat watch and then continue our search for Farkas. He said Farkas knows where the six nukes are and the Feds want to get their hands on him."
Scott engaged the autopilot. "Have I missed something?"
"He said they have solid intel suggesting that a nuke may be on the houseboat."
"Selective amnesia. Wakefield didnt tell you that little detail."