“What do you…” The tall, thin lieutenant let his hand slip from where it rested on the top of his holster to his side with red-faced embarrassment. “Captain Algar!” He came to attention. “Sir, I did not know it was you. Lieutenant Ashad Hamshari, sir! Can I help you?”
Muhadesh looked around from his seat. “I am going to the airport. A flight to Tripoli.”
The lieutenant swallowed hard. “Sir, my orders are to allow no one into the airport perimeter. Did you not pass the roadblock at the highway? They should have told you of this. I will—”
“Lieutenant Hamshari, I am commander of the Third Training Battalion, fifteen miles east of here. I traveled on the entrance road to our compound.” You idiot. Incompetence and ignorance seem to be required for promotion. “As you must know, it intersects this road between here and the main highway.”
“Yes, of course.”
“So, Lieutenant, can you tell me why I must miss my flight? There is a reason?”
“Sir…yes, I am certain there is, but…” The Lieutenant stared, mouth open, at Muhadesh.
“I see. Following orders.” Muhadesh snickered. “Who, may I ask, issued the orders?”
“Colonel Hajin, sir.”
I should have… “Very well. I expect that Colonel Hajin has made it clear that only those with his permission may pass.”
“Exactly,” the answer came, almost apologetically. “Do you have such authorization, Captain?”
“Would I be sitting on this road if that were the case? Lieutenant Hamshari, you are responsible for notifying me, or my executive officer, Lieutenant Indar, immediately once the airport is open. Is that very, very clear?”
“Yes, sir. You will know the moment I do.”
Muhadesh returned a salute and turned the jeep sharply around, putting one wheel on the soft side of the road before heading back the way he had come. Already he was trying to figure out what was going on. Something was, that was certain. He wasn’t a good analyst of inferences or subtle intelligence tidbits — that was not his way. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Hajin…what are you up to?
Mohammed Hadad felt at peace and in control. All had gone so well. The attack by the martyrs in America had dealt a crushing blow, the beginning of a greater deed that would teach not only the Americans, but also their unholy allies and puppets, the power of Allah. And they would be powerless to stop it. The blessing of the Great One brought strength and determination to the righteousness of his purpose. His own life was meaningless when compared with the purpose. It was what drove him now. It was his reason to go on. The only reason. The power was awesome. None could resist it. The Greek infidel could not. He had placed the weapons on the plane for a simple, meager bribe, and he would surely be discovered. And soon, Hadad knew, the final dagger would be unsheathed.
Hadad looked ahead. The pilots were intent on their flying, almost as if the concentration could mask their fear. Oh yes, they feared him, even in their arrogance. That was why he made them fly so low. He saw that they feared that too. They were comfortable in their routines and familiar procedures, precisely why he commanded them to do what he wanted. He was in control. At one point he had ordered them to fly just three hundred feet above the water. They were very nervous then. I am in control. They fear me.
He looked at his watch. It was time to begin the taunting. Now he would captivate not only these people, but the entire world. Hadad reached into his pocket while holding the Uzi under his arm.
“Broadcast this,” he commanded, handing the message — typed in perfect English — to the pilot.
Captain Hendrickson took the paper in hand and scanned it. The message was short. He half turned in his seat, a task made difficult by the harness and semi form-fitting cushions, and faced the hijacker. He was young, very handsome, and neat-looking with his nicely cut dark hair. There were tan lines along his temples where glasses had been. Odd, the captain thought. The hijacker looked like he had spent some time at the beach. And what could cause a young man like this to do what he was doing? He didn’t fit the terrorist profile: nervous, loud, violent. He could have been fresh out of some corporate training program by appearance. The man was calm, almost serene, though his eyes bore no doubt that he would use his weapon. But the bomb? Was he suicidal? Would he release the switch and kill everybody, or was it a bluff?
“Buzz, send this,” the captain said, handing the paper over. “My stick.”
“Roger, your st—”
“No!” Hadad shouted, displaying agitation for the first time. “You send the message! You do it as I ordered!”
The captain turned again. “Listen,” he began, his voice raised noticeably. “I am flying this aircraft. If you want to get wherever it is you’re planning to go, then I suggest you let me do my job.”
Hadad glared into the pilot’s wide eyes. Yes, I need you to fly, infidel. It is all right that you think you have won. He shifted his look to the copilot and stepped back, sitting down in the jump seat. “Go ahead.”
Buzz took the paper and, after a quick look over it, pressed the column-mounted mike switch.
One hundred and twelve miles to the west the Frisbee-topped E-2C Hawkeye from the USS Carl Vinson had just finished topping off its tanks from its tanker. Two F-14 Tomcats, with their own tanker support, were loitering seven thousand feet below the Hawkeye, designated Hammer Two-Seven. The Tomcats were just a precaution. Flight 422 was paralleling the North African coast some three hundred miles offshore, and Hammer Two-Seven was equally close, following the 747’s westerly course.
The crew of the Hawkeye, an early-warning aircraft with a powerful radar in its top-mounted rotating dome, were mostly young, but highly trained and vigilant. Not only were they monitoring the hijacked aircraft, a task they performed with great seriousness, they were also keeping an eye open for any of Qaddafi’s ‘aerial submarines,’ as they called the hopelessly ill-manned Libyan fighters. The colonel had been crazy enough to send his warplanes after U.S. forces in the area before, hence the derogatory nickname as the jets became proficient at subsurface maneuvers. The crew of the unarmed radar plane were nonetheless pleased that the two F-14s were nearby.
On the radar officer’s screen the 747 was a clearly painted target. The altitude of the target — non hostile aircraft were targets, hostile ones were bandits — was fuzzy, but certainly below two thousand. That was an altitude quite uncomfortable for the pilots of large aircraft, as it left little room for error or recovery in the event of a power loss. The radar officer tried to picture it, lumbering over the ocean, its four turbofans leaving a trail of thunder on the water. The altitude readout had actually ceased at one point, a sign that the target had dropped below five hundred feet. Crazy fuckers!
“Sir! Target is transmitting!” the communications officer, a lieutenant, announced. Both hands were pressing the black headphones against his ears.
Commander Jack Polhill, Hammer Two-Seven’s commanding officer, ordered Com to put it on speaker. ‘On speaker’ meant through the intercom feed to the other crew members. It was a term that had stuck, though it was something of a misnomer, like Polhill’s title; he commanded the aircraft, but didn’t fly it.
“Four-Two-Two heavy to any station.” The broadcast was on the international civilian aircraft emergency frequency.