As the seconds ticked away, he rapidly considered his options. With two armed F-16s flying next to him, they were limited at best. Martino, a cocky pilot with a "grandstander" reputation, made a hasty decision to roll the dice. He would make a move to lure the Americans farther into Mexico. Surely they would not chance shooting him down over his own country.
He yanked the throttles back and snapped into a knife-edge turn to the left. He was heading directly south when he slammed into the tail of the American flight leader.
Both aircraft exploded in a bright reddish-yellow fireball, instantly killing the pilots. The remains of the fighters impacted the ground twenty miles west of the New Mexico-Arizona border.
The horrified wingman, Captain Daryl Milner, contacted the AWACS and then circled the crash sites until he was forced to depart because of low fuel. He dreaded having to face his friends bride of one month.
Unable to stop watching the news updates about the tragic disasters and the border incursions, Jackie and Scott had slept a little over two hours when they awakened at 6:10 A. M. The horrible, sickening assault on America had not been a bad dream.
The destroyed dams, the unthinkable flood, and the border disasters were real. The numbers of the dead or injured far exceeded that of September eleventh. Many Americans were numb with shock; many more were deeply angry. There was talk about using nuclear weapons on the foreign countries that sponsored terrorists.
The same conversations that were taking place at local cafes in Wyoming and Montana were taking place in Manhattan and in the District of Columbia. Many of those who had previously been concerned about the treatment and rights of combatant detainees at Guantanamo Bay were now strangely silent.
The issue of using national guard troops to act in a law enforcement role on the border was still unsettled. Some politicians suggested the guardsmen simply detain the illegal immigrants for law enforcement officers, but that idea had set off alarms throughout the Beltway.
At this early hour, accusations of racial profiling were being made on Capitol Hill and the morning television shows. The politicians were tight-faced and in full screech.
Although the American markets were temporarily closed, tempers were flaring on the networks financial news programs. The bears were predicting a global collapse of financial markets. The bulls in the debate were calling for calm, rational thinking.
The search for victims was still under way and growing as more military and civilian helicopters arrived in the Southwest. Makeshift morgues were hastily set up in every square foot of available warehouse space, and most were filled to capacity. Those who survived the flood were either injured or had been exposed to low levels of radiation.
With the horrible events in the southwestern states, many Americans were just beginning to focus on the sudden tension between the United States and Mexico. The uncontained breach of the U. S.-Mexico border had resulted in President Macklins activating army national guard units from Texas, New Mexico, California, and Nevada. They would augment Arizona's national guard, already on duty, to assist border inspectors and reduce traffic delays at key crossings.
The national guard s new orders were clear: Police the entire border and detain all illegal aliens trying to enter the United States. Clamp down hard was the word, straight from the White House.
President Macklin had made his position on terrorism crystal clear in a televised press conference following his Cabinet meeting.
"I will not sit idly by while additional thousands of Americans are murdered in the next terrorist attack. You can forget the term politically correct and all other such catchphrases. On my watch, common sense and a strong backbone will carry the day."
He paused, staring straight into the camera. "If youre a Middle Eastern male between the ages of sixteen and sixty, you re going to be profiled, no doubt about it. If you re Latin American or Hispanic, plan on being stopped and checked for proper documentation."
His features softened and his voice sounded upbeat. "On the other hand, if you re a white-haired eighty-seven-year-old widow from Topeka, Kansas, you re not likely to be questioned."
He went on to explain to the assembled reporters that after the disastrous midair collision between the air force F-16 and the Mexican F-5, a second strong warning had been sent to the government of Mexico and its military leaders. Any foreign aircraft straying into U. S. airspace would be intercepted and forced to land. If the pilot did not comply, the plane or helicopter would be shot down without hesitation.
Macklin explained that Secretary of State Bradley Austin was en route from Saudi Arabia to Mexico City for an emergency meeting with his counterpart and the Mexican president.
Scott finished shaving and splashed water on his face. "Things are getting warm down south."
Jackie closed her luggage. "Fd say President Macklin is running short on patience this morning."
"You can hear it in his voice." Scott paused and looked at Jackie. "This would be a good time to correct some of the problems we have with Mexico."
She started to grin and then realized he was not joking. "What do you mean, problems with Mexico?"
He dried his face. "Corruption in the Ejercito Mexicano — the Mexican army — and the culture of corruption in the police forces.
The drug lords will spend more than seven hundred million dollars this year in bribes and payoffs to Mafia-like Mexican generals and police officials."
"Yeah, its a mess down there," she said, reaching for Scott's luggage. "The system is corrupt from the top down, always has been."
"It's time for our government to help correct the problem, for the sake of both our countries." He turned off the television. "Let's head for the airport — lots to do."
"Yeah, we'll tackle the Mexican problem on our lunch break."
Since his return to Geneva, Saeed Shayhidi had not communicated with anyone. He would keep the Americans guessing. He had spent the entire time planning how he was going to regain control of his far-reaching conglomerate. The betrayal by Ahmed Musashi and Hafiz al-Yamani had been devastating, but the resolve that arose from the gut-wrenching incident was rock solid.
Everything was planned down to the most minute of details, including a new identity. Recovering from cosmetic surgery, Saeed Shayhidi was pleased with the early results. His face had been transformed without having to do radical surgery. With his hair now salt and pepper, he looked twenty years older. An inexpensive ill-fitting suit and scuffed shoes added another dimension to the makeover. Topping it off was a scruffy pale-yellow straw hat and tiny round wire-rim glasses without any correction.
No one but his one lifelong friend knew Shayhidi was in Geneva. Essam Afzal, a rich and powerful man in his own right, was using his contacts to construct an entirely new identity for Shayhidi. Bank accounts, credit cards — everything a person needs to start over — were in the works.
Afzal walked into the enormous game room, followed by his butler, who fixed them drinks at the bar. The butler, a heavyset Syrian, brought the libations to the sunken seating area and then left the room.
Also educated in the Ivy League, Essam Afzal raised his glass in a toast. "Well, you certainly won't be recognizable."
Shayhidi smiled and sipped his scotch and soda. "That's good because I want to see the looks on Ahmed Musashi and Hafiz al-Yamani just before I kill them."
Afzal frowned and stroked his neatly trimmed beard. "That's too risky. Have someone else take care of them."
"Dont worry I have a solid plan."
"If youre caught, the authorities will discover who you are. That, my friend, is not good. Trust me."