In an hour and a half he would be walking past the body of the slain president, its casket closed for obvious reasons. He would offer a silent prayer for the man, but what could he do for the other murdered American? As president he was expected to provide leadership and answers for the American people. What would he tell them? What could possibly be done to end this madness of terror against innocents? He didn’t know, but he would have to. The public would want a solution. Lip service and hollow offerings, as had been the norm in the past, would not suffice. That was not his way. Whatever was decided would have to satisfy his sense of right as well as that of the people, and it would have to be effective.
“And some of our speculation appears to have been at least close to the mark,” Bud said. “I want to show you the last part again.” He reversed the recording for only a few seconds. “Now here we see the aircraft start its takeoff roll. It’s going awfully slow — this is actual time, no compression or slow mo — and here”—Bud pointed to the screen with his pen, leaning in—“we have four good exhausts from the engines, so it appears to be very heavy. Moderately overweight at the least. She’s passing the halfway point here.”
They had watched the images only a few minutes earlier. The scene still caused the president to grimace. The small object on the right wing slid backward and off. It disappeared out of frame as the aircraft continued on.
“And now…” Bud touched the remote, freezing the picture. “This is where they lift off. See, the shadow is changing horizontally under and to the side of the nose.” He let the image progress, then froze it again. “And the main gear. That’s only about two hundred feet from sand.”
“That’s one hell of a pilot,” the president commented.
The COS opened his folio. “His name is Bart Hendrickson. He flew big Air Force stuff. Eight years total in uniform. He’s been with the airline for about thirty years. Their home office says he’s about as experienced as one can get. His co-pilot is a former Marine fighter pilot, Adam Elkins.”
“The Agency is working on some weight estimates,” Bud said.
“But…” The president urged a continuance.
“But so far it only adds weight to the worst-case scenario.”
Gonzales’s folio slapped shut. “Sir, these developments are serious. The rules have changed.”
“Ellis, please.” The president stood and took a few steps, then turned back to face his aides.
“What Ellis means, sir, is that the tide of events has turned. In Britain the SAS would be called in — formally. That’s the way the British do it. There is no second chance for the terrorists once they’ve shed blood. Negotiations are used only to buy time and put the situation in the best possible position for action. We have now reached that point and the only decision we should have to make is which party is the culprit. And, what will be the best response to the situation.”
He felt old, and if the president could have seen his own face with its pursing lips, he would be aghast at the gesture. “I agree. Recommendations?”
“Sir, we put Delta in a go mode and put them in the air.”
The COS nodded agreement.
“To where, Bud?”
“That aircraft is going to have to set down somewhere. We can have Delta there, either ahead of them or right behind. No matter where that may be, all Delta has to do is shadow them until they show their hand. In-flight refueling can keep them up as long as we need.”
“It’s at least a lot more than we’re doing now,” Gonzales added.
The president gestured a go. “Make it happen, Bud. Any final authorization comes from me.”
“Understood.”
“Does Granger have the contingency plans ready?”
“I’ve looked over the preliminary report,” Bud answered. “He’s going to present a full, detailed run through today.”
“Good. Bud, I need your review ASAP. I’ll be back from the viewing about twelve-thirty.”
“Yes, sir.” Bud knew that ASAP did not mean whenever you can get to it — it meant now.
“I’m sorry you can’t attend,” the president said apologetically. Bud had admired the late president greatly. But…
“So am I, Mr. President.”
The Frisbee-shaped dome above the E3 AWACS rotated continuously. Inside, a crew considerably larger than that of Hammer Two-Seven monitored the progress of the hijacked jet and the pair of swept-wing F-14s from the Vinson on its tail. They had arrived on station just east of Gibraltar a few moments earlier and, after clearing the airspace around them, had begun tracking Flight 422 as it headed west.
“Target, course change,” the chief radar operator announced.
The commander swiveled his chair, stood, and walked down three consoles. He plugged his headset into the auxiliary jack. “Where’s he going, Lieutenant?”
“Two-six-oh true, sir. Right for the Strait.”
“And us. He’s angels three-zero, huh?” the green-suited commander asked.
“Yes, sir.”
A flip of the intercom selector switch connected him to the cockpit. “Pilot, take us up. We’ve got a target, angels three-zero, range one hundred, and he’s coming straight on at three hundred plus. Clear us. Copy?” After the acknowledgment he switched back to cabin intercom.
“Holding two-six-oh true, sir.”
“Yep. Com, get those Navy jocks back to their boat. That bird belongs to Air Force now.”
“Roger that.” The radar operator smiled.
Revolution Avenue was a row of ivory-colored low-rise buildings in the eastern section of Benghazi. They were exclusive buildings, all apartments that the ‘average’ Libyan could never hope to live in, or enter. Government officials and ranking military officers were the privileged few who could secure an apartment there, for use as a primary residence or a second ‘home.’
Muhadesh entered the center tower at Number 7 through the simply landscaped courtyard which continued into the structure as an atrium. The decor was sparse but attractive, something unusual in a country where niceties were often associated with the wickedness of the West, and strange when the living conditions of its people were considered. He didn’t consider himself to be a socially conscious person, but it did bother him. What meager resources his country had were supposed to provide as good a life as possible for the people. Muhadesh knew better, having seen where the money went.
The sounds of the afternoon traffic faded with the closing of the elevator doors, replaced by the hum and friction sounds as he was lifted to the fourth floor. Captain Ibrahim Sadr’s apartment was halfway down the magenta-carpeted hall that ran straight from the elevator. Muhadesh could see the entire corridor from the elevator. On his left were the odd-numbered rooms: 401, 403, 405, 407…and 409, the one he wanted. He approached the door, removing the pistol from inside his coat and placing it in his back waistband. His toughened hand knocked for thirty seconds before the door opened fully.
Captain Sadr, wearing a white bathrobe, stood framed by the doorway. His bushy black mustache and hair showed evidence of sleep, or…
Of course, Muhadesh thought. Slime, through and through.
“Captain Ibrahim Sadr?” Muhadesh knew it was, but needed to size up his quarry. He put both hands on his hips, bringing the right one closer to the Beretta.
“Yes. Who are you?” Sadr asked impatiently, leaning on the open door and obviously annoyed at the intrusion.
“Captain Muhadesh Algar — Third Training Battalion. May I speak to you privately?” Both hands were now behind his back at an ‘at rest’ stance, with the right hand gripping the compact pistol.