"If you'll fix the cocktails," Scott said with a lazy smile, "I'll light the grill and set the table."
"You're on."
When they were finished with the smoked medley of lobster, shrimp, and salmon, Jackie and Scott cleared the patio table and loaded the dishwasher. After charging their glasses with wine, they reclined in chaise longues under the stars.
"Should we go to Crete first?" Jackie asked.
"I've considered it, but I think there are more answers in Geneva. For whatever reason, my guess is that Shayhidi had those two people killed."
Jackie stared at the heavens. "If that's true, and I don't doubt you, it must have been one hell of a falling out."
"Must have been." Scott turned to her. "We have to concentrate on Shayhidi, and I think Geneva is the key to finding him."
"Well, we'll be there tomorrow to get the lay of the land."
They remained quiet, each deep in thought. So much had happened in such a short period, in the United States and around the world. So many things Americans had taken for granted were now damaged or destroyed. The United States was bombing terrorist-harboring nations round the clock. When would logic prevail? When would reason again be the benchmark of civilization?
Jackie turned on her side and faced Scott. "If you don't mind, I'll take the first leg tomorrow."
"That's fine with me." Scott sat up on the edge of his chaise. "How about a stroll around the block?"
"Why not? Need to burn off some nervous energy."
All the players and their aides were gathered in the Situation Room while the first of five B-2S made their bombing runs using the new penetrating weapons. When the last stealth bomber completed its mission, nine out of the ten bunker complexes had been completely destroyed.
President Macklin, Dave Timkey, Brad Austin, Pete Adair, Hartwell Prost, and many others were monitoring the imminent press briefing at the Pentagon. The media hounds were in full whine and tugging on their leashes. Many of the reporters appeared to be salivating, waiting to sink their fangs into any of the knuckle-dragging Australopithecus cretins wearing a military uniform. They were about to meet the new 4 chief cretin" at the Pentagon.
Marine Corps Major General Walter "Wally1' Connaught stepped to the podium for his inaugural news briefing. Handsome, tall, choirboy smile, wide shoulders, and not an ounce of fat on his rugged frame, Wally was a highly decorated F/A-18 fighter pilot.
Brad Austin looked at President Macklin. "This should be worth the price of admission."
Macklin smiled, humor in his twinkling eyes. "I think Wally will hold his own in his first briefing at the day-care center."
In a clear, resonant voice, Connaught introduced himself to the frenzied crowd. The introduction elicited only harsh looks and unfriendly stares.
He placed his hands on the edges of the podium. "To answer the obvious question first: Yes, we used ten super-bunker busters on targets recognized as not friendly to the United States."
The place erupted.
General Connaught raised both hands to calm the riotlike atmosphere. "Okay, folks, we re going to have to inject some order and discipline into these exchanges. If everyone talks at once, it sounds like a foreign language: gibberish. The art of communication works best when we employ a pattern. You talk, I talk, you talk, et cetera. The concept is tried-and-true. I'll select the questioners, and the rest of you give them a chance to be heard."
From the indignant glares, Connaught was confident he had struck a collective nerve. He calmly pointed to a young woman who was beet red in the face and deeply frowning.
Her voice was high pitched and strained. "Why are you using these super-busters on countries, on — on — on people who cant defend themselves? Violence only leads to more violence."
Connaught maintained an air of detachment. "Before I answer the question, please take a few seconds to relax. Dont want anyone to faint," he deadpanned. "We are using super-bunker busters to penetrate deep underground fortifications containing weapons of mass destruction and/or the laboratories producing them. Violence does not always lead to more violence. However, ineffective, halfhearted, limp-wrist violence is guaranteed to lead to more violence."
He paused a couple of seconds, gazing at the sea of wide eyes.
"Overwhelming, concentrated, well-executed violence never leads to more violence because the enemy is dead. All of them are graveyard dead — end of the violence. No rehabilitation, no reeducation, simply dead. You get the picture?"
Another reporter raised his hand and was acknowledged. "How can you justify the use of secret super weapons in a—"
Connaught cut him off. "Its simple. Think of it as a game. They're trying to kill us. The object of the game is to kill them first."
He pointed to another reporter, a young man with long wavy hair. "You said you used ten super-bunker busters."
"That's correct," the general said pleasantly.
"How many casualties were there as a direct result of… of using the super-bunker busters?"
The general paused a moment. I can't believe this. Many of these people are too stupid to know they're stupid. "We're not sure, won't ever be sure." Connaught smiled. "The casualties all occurred fifty to sixty feet underground."
His audience was stunned.
The next question was about racial profiling, and the general almost laughed out loud. "Let me ask you a question. Who do you think is trying to kill us: New Zealanders, Icelanders? Of course we're profiling; we'd be fools if we didn't. Next question." And I thought flying a jet at night from a carrier deck was scary.
The general closely refereed the remainder of the question-and-answer period. Order and discipline were maintained, but Connaught had learned as much as, if not more than, the questioners. He knew he had experienced a microcosm of society that truly astounded him.
In the quiet Situation Room, it was clear to President Macklin and his staff that world opinion and the media hounds would be yapping at his heels. The president was not the least bothered by those lacking willpower or resolution. The handwringers would always be held hostage to blackmail and appeasement. He would continue thrashing the terrorists and their sponsors until they surrendered unconditionally. He would settle for nothing less. Until then, Macklin vowed to continue terrorizing the terrorists.
Chapter 32
The day was dawning under cloudy skies and brisk winds when Jackie and Scott arrived at the Signature Flight Support executive terminal. Their witty, sometimes bawdy, Irish-born taxi driver placed their luggage next to his cab and wished them well.
Scott handed him a crisp folded bill. "Keep the change."
A glint of appreciation flashed in the drivers twinkling eyes. "Thank you, sir. Very generous of you."
"My pleasure."
After they entered the building, Jackie checked the en-route weather and filed an instrument flight plan to Gander, Newfoundland.
With the help of a friendly customer service representative, Scott loaded their luggage and supplies into their new Gulfstream 100 jet. With fresh coffee, warm pastries, water, and plenty of ice on board, they were ready to get under way in their search for terrorist mastermind Saeed Shayhidi.
After Jackie started an engine, Scott listened to the ATIS and called Clearance Delivery. He copied the instrument clearance and then read it back for verification. Switching to Dulles Ground Control, Scott requested permission to taxi to Runway 19-Left. When they were cleared, Jackie added power and began taxiing. Clear of the parking ramp, she started the second engine.
Completing the before-takeoff checklist, Scott rechecked the flap setting and then called the tower as they approached the runway. Granted permission to take off, Jackie pulled onto the runway.