Exhausted soldiers still plainly shaken by what they had witnessed directed her toward a small clump of senior officers gathered near the water’s edge.
One, a gray-haired Navy captain, nodded when she asked after Peter.
“Colonel Thorn? Yeah. He’s around here somewhere, ma’am.” He looked up, squinting further down the riverbank against the floodlights. Then he pointed toward a lone figure staring out across the water. “That’s him.”
Helen nodded her thanks and moved on.
Peter Thorn looked up at her approach. His drawn face held a look of anger and sorrow stronger than any she had ever seen before. “This was deliberate?” he asked grimly.
She nodded. “Several hundred eyewitnesses have reported seeing two or three distinct missile trails merging with the plane. And we know where the terrorists fired from. The canal park. They killed an innocent bystander there. We found the body this afternoon.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m afraid it gets worse, Peter,” she said gently. “Somebody blew up the main fuel storage tanks at Dallas/Fort Worth International two hours ago. Several hundred thousand gallons of jet fuel went up in seconds. They’re still trying to fight the fires and make some estimate of the damage and casualties, but it’s pretty bad.”
She paused briefly before delivering the rest of her news. “The local papers here and in Dallas have already had phone calls claiming responsibility for both attacks. They seem genuine.”
“From the god damned New Aryan Order?”
Helen shook her head. “No. These came from a group called the African Liberation Front. They claimed they were retaliating against the ‘Nazi white establishment.’ ”
“Christ. That’s all we need.” Peter looked away again, out toward the floodlit river. His eyes were full of pain. “I became a soldier to fight the kind of bastards who would do something like this. The kind who shoot down airliners full of women and kids just to make some lousy political point. But now it’s happening right here at home, and I can’t do a single thing to stop it.”
She moved closer, into the circle of his arms. “I know,” she said softly.
He held her tighter, softly stroking her hair taking what comfort he could from her presence and her warmth.
CHAPTER 15
REACTION TIME
Officers from three separate services and several different units filled the JSOC’s main conference room. Delta Force officers mingled with their counterparts from the Navy’s SEAL Team Six, the Air Force’s air commando units, the Army’s Ranger forces, and the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, the Night Stalkers. While they waited for Major General Sam Farrell to appear, they chatted quietly among themselves, exchanging theories about why they had been summoned on such short notice.
Colonel Peter Thorn finished talking to Bill Henderson, his successor at Delta’s A Squadron, and moved off toward the water cooler. His throat still hurt from the kerosene he’d swallowed in the Potomac, but the Pentagon doctors had cleared him for continued duty, with the sternly worded proviso that he significantly increase his fluid intake for the next seventy-two hours.
“Attention.”
The single, crisp order cut off every conversation in midsentence. Every man turned toward the entrance to the conference room and came to attention.
The commander of the JSOC appeared there suddenly, flanked by his top operations officer, Colonel Raymond Ziegler. The general had a grim, set expression on his face. Ziegler’s face was studiously blank.
Farrell waved them into the chairs surrounding a long, rectangular conference table. “Please take your seats, gentlemen. We have a lot of ground to cover this afternoon.”
The general strode to the head of the table while Thorn and the other officers found their assigned places. He didn’t waste any time on the regular briefing platitudes. “I just got off the phone with the Joint Chiefs. As of 1500 hours today, all elements of this command are on full alert. All leaves have been canceled, and my staff is already issuing an immediate recall order to all affected personnel.”
Despite the earlier speculation, Thorn was surprised. Before he’d flown down to Pope Air Force Base earlier that morning he’d seen no signs of unusual activity at the Pentagon that might explain this sudden order. Washington’s policy makers, the FBI, and the American people were still in a state of shock over the twin disasters at Dallas/Fort Worth and National Airport. Had someone stumbled across the headquarters of a terrorist cell big enough to warrant all this military attention?
Farrell’s next words dashed that faint hope. “Gentlemen, the President has authorized a number of emergency measures in a coordinated effort to safeguard air travel over the capital and this country’s other major cities. This operation has been designated SAFE SKIES.”
The general was careful to keep his tone neutral, but Thorn could sense that he disagreed with aspects of the plan he was busy laying before them. He’d known Sam Farrell for too long to be taken in by his poker face. “As approved by the White House this morning, Operation SAFE SKIES has several key provisions.
“First, effective immediately, the FAA has prohibited all private flights into and out of the Washington, D.C., area.
“Second, the government is exerting pressure on the airlines to sharply curtail the number of commercial flights in and out of both National and Dulles. Similar measures will be applied to all airports of significant size across the United States.”
Thorn and several other officers around the table whistled softly in amazement. Disrupting the normal flow of civilian air traffic to that extent for any length of time would seriously affect the national economy. Certainly, it would cost the airlines, commercial freight companies, and a host of other businesses dearly in lost revenue and efficiency.
“Third, the Air Force will begin an around-the-clock program to retrofit commercial jetliners with the jammer and flare dispenser systems already used by our military transport aircraft.”
That, too, was astounding. On a per-plane basis, the costs of such modifications were not exorbitant, Thorn knew, but the total cost of such a program would be enormous. The U.S. airlines alone operated around five thousand passenger jets.
Farrell paused to let the magnitude of the planned federal effort sink in before continuing. If anything, the expression on his face grew even more dour. “These measures are designed to make our job in this operation more manageable.”
Thorn shifted closer to the edge of his seat. What role could the military’s special forces possibly play in this expensive extravaganza? The steps the administration planned were reactive not proactive.
“The President signed a special National Security Action Directive this morning, gentlemen,” Farrell said with emphasis. “And authorises the use of the armed forces within the continental United States to carry out the objectives of Operation SAFE SKIES. Under that directive, we have been ordered to deploy units of Delta Force, SEAL Team Six, and the Night Stalkers to northern Virginia, Maryland, and the Washington metropolitan region.”
Thorn glanced to the left and right. The faces of the officers in view all mirrored his own confusion. What the hell did the White House have in mind?
Farrell answered their unspoken questions in a flat, official voice.
“Using ground surveillance teams, helicopter sweeps, and quick-reaction forces, we will be responsible for securing designated air corridors into both Dulles and National airports.” He held up a hand to still the sudden buzz. “Units of the 101st Air Assault Division and the Army and Air National Guard will conduct similar security sweeps around all the other major airports Dallas/Fort Worth, Chicago’s O’Hare, LAX, and the rest.