"There's activity on the houseboat."
She propped herself up on one elbow. "Are they getting ready to leave?"
"I don't know, but I have an idea. The galley light came on about five minutes ago, but I haven't seen anyone — wait, I see one of the men in the galley. Just walked in."
Jackie poured bottled water on a kitchen towel and wiped her face. "I'll fix some hot tea."
"We don't have time. I need you to cover me."
She looked at him suspiciously. "What are you talking about?"
Scott pointed to the neatly coiled nylon dock line. "I'm going to foul their props so the boat can't go anywhere."
Jackie was incredulous. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Listen, just listen for a second." He picked up the end of the braided line. "These two lines — I've tied them together — are used to secure the airplane to docks. I have sixty feet of five-eighths-inch nylon line with a tensile strength of fifteen thousand pounds — same kind I have on my sailboat."
She raised her hand. "Stop. Not another word; don't say anything, period. In fact, I have one hell of a plan. We raise the anchor, start the engine, turn on the landing light, and ease out of here-gone. Adios."
"Jackie, do you know what will happen if these people do have a nuke and it goes off next to the dam?"
"Do you know what will happen if they detonate a nuke next to us?"
"That's why we re going to do my plan first — immobilize their houseboat — and then we re going to implement your plan — get out of Dodge."
"Immobilize the houseboat?" Her eyes quizzed him. "Wont the props cut through the nylon line?"
"That's the point. The props won't be able to turn."
"Unbelievable." Jackie reached for one of the Heckler & Koch compact submachine guns. "We could have been in Hawaii doing something totally normal, like watching the sun set."
Scott removed his boots, and then slipped out of his shirt, socks, and hiking shorts. "Just cover me. If things go south, make every shot count. Take them both out."
He grabbed the nylon line, climbed out on the float, and slipped quietly into the calm water. The water temperature was comfortable and Scott was a strong swimmer. With the line looped around his left shoulder, he did a modified breaststroke toward the houseboat.
Jackie switched off the flashlight and sat in the cockpit with the door open. She held the submachine gun in her lap, ready to fire at the first sign of trouble.
Closing on the boat, Scott swam in slow motion as he approached the stern. When he was next to the stern drives, he eased beneath the surface and fastened the line around one prop. I hope they don't start the engines now.
Looping the line in a figure eight from one prop to the other and around the lower units, Scott surfaced four times to take a deep breath. Finally, he wrapped the last ten feet of line around the middle of the figure eight and tied a tight knot. The three-blade props were securely lashed port and starboard and fore and aft. The houseboat was not going anywhere under its own power until the braided line was removed.
When Scott surfaced, he heard voices nearby. The two men on the houseboat were outside talking in hushed voices. Scott could not risk swimming directly to the Caravan. He treaded water for a few minutes and then decided to go the long way back. That would mean making a wide arc from the houseboat to the Caravan.
Jackie, straining to see any movement in the water, was becoming more anxious as the minutes passed. The sky was hinting at turning light. If they see him in the water and then realize something is wrong with their boat? Not a good place to be.
Swimming slowly and quietly Scott kept his nose an inch out of the water. If they catch me in a spotlight, I'm in serious trouble. After traveling about fifty yards behind the houseboat, Scott began a wide arc to reach the Caravan on the unexposed side.
Halfway to the airplane, he realized dawn was beginning to break. Going to have to move faster and shorten my route.
The high-altitude airfield was practically deserted so early in the morning. The sky was clear and the sun was still below the horizon. It was a perfect morning for flying: no wind to speak of, and no turbulence close to the ground.
Securely strapped into the left seat of the former Tokyo Express, Khaliq Farkas was pleased with the satellite phone connections to the lookouts at both targets. He followed his checklist and started the B-25 s big radial engines. They sputtered a few times, coughed up clouds of thick oily smoke, and then rumbled to life.
His wingman, Tohir Makkawi, also started his bomber s fourteen-cylinder engines. Makkawi, an Iranian who was in the United States on an expired student visa, had acquired only ninety-three hours of total flying time, but Farkas had found him to be a quick study.
Each pilot had a crewman with an AK-47 for last-ditch defense against an adversary in the air or on the ground. They could shoot from the large openings on each side of the fuselage behind the wings, formerly the waist gunners position.
If everything worked as planned, one of these two reconditioned survivors of World War II would be flying its last mission this morning. While the Mitchells engines warmed sufEciendy, the ground crew checked for leaks and other anomalies on the warbirds. Everything appeared normal on the exterior, while the engine gauges in the cockpits reflected the same status. It was time to fulfill Saeed Shayhidis grand plan, the mastermind s most elaborate scheme yet.
The senior mechanic gave both pilots the signal to taxi. Once the airplanes were off the ground, the mechanic and his fellow terrorists would make their way to a secluded cabin in the backwoods of Canada. They would remain there in sleep mode until activated to strike again.
Flying the brown and dark gray bomber, Farkas led Makkawi in the silver B-25 to Runway 21. The Bryce Canyon Airport is classified as an uncontrolled airport. All pilots, whether inbound, outbound, or flying in the traffic pattern performing touch-and-goes, are expected to communicate on a common frequency.
After each pilot ran up his engines, checking that all systems were functioning properly Makkawi keyed the radio and told his flight leader that he was ready for takeoff. Partially lowering his flaps, Farkas made the necessary radio call to take the active runway and taxied into position. He slowly added power and then released the brakes.
Once Farkas was rolling down the 7,400-foot runway, Makkawi lowered his flaps, made the mandatory radio call, and taxied onto the airstrip. Carrying an extra 300 gallons of fuel in his plane, Makkawi walked the throttles forward and released the brakes. A few seconds later, he knew he was in trouble. The bomber began drifting to the left side of the seventy-five-foot-wide runway.
With his heart stuck in his throat, he shoved in the right rudder and overcorrected, sending the B-25 careening toward the right side of the runway. Clutching a handhold, the crewman in the back was praying he would live through the takeoff.
With alternate jabs at the brakes and the rudders, Makkawi finally managed to get the bomber off the runway and climbing. His heart was pounding so fast that he froze on the controls. He had come close to losing control of the Mitchell and jeopardizing the mission.
Passing near the Best Western Ruby s Inn, Farkas was in the process of adjusting the engine controls. Waiting for Makkawi to join him in loose formation on his left wing, Farkas began a gentle left turn. He didnt want to use the radios unless it was absolutely necessary. After a minute, he began to bank more steeply to the left. Where is he? Farkas rolled wings level on course to the initial point for their first target.
"One, slow down." The voice was tinged with anxiety.
Slow down? Something is wrong. Rolling into a tight bank to the left, Farkas was approaching 180 degrees of turn when he saw the problem. He keyed the radio. "Two, raise your landing gear and check your flaps up."