Ibrahim Sadr felt the cable tighten again just as he exhaled. He wished he had inhaled first, something that made the other short stretches without air just bearable, but soon he realized that it did not matter. It did not abate this time. There was no saving breath to quench his lungs’ desire. His usefulness had been exhausted. Fighting would do no good. He simply closed his eyes, his last conscious, voluntary act.
The body twitched and shook involuntarily as the captain’s dying brain lost control of its host. A few minutes later the alimentary canal opened, releasing bodily refuse and fluids. It was a most unpleasant smell that followed, though it did not bother Muhadesh — he was already in the courtyard four floors below, walking casually to his vehicle. He was calm, truly. The information-gathering part of his mission was done. The rest would be easy. Confidence came with the rank.
“A very thoroughly thought-out operation,” Bud commented as the briefing ended. “Thank you.”
The Joint Chiefs director of Operations laid the pointer on the map wall ledge before leaving. His briefing had been comprehensive and intelligent. Concentrated air strikes from B-52s and Navy Intruders, with overwhelming air cover, would decimate the Libyan military. Marines choppered into the drilling and processing sites would destroy the colonel’s petroleum industry for years to come. There was no doubt in Bud’s mind that the plan could accomplish what it set out to.
“General, would you walk me out to the pad?”
“Certainly,” Granger answered.
The Blackhawk’s rotors were still. A light rain was falling, keeping the two men under the canopy at building’s edge.
“I’m going back to the White House to get ready,” Bud said, pulling his overcoat collar up. “This weather is weird.”
“Getting colder — in September, yet.” Granger put his cap on. “So, is it a go?”
He couldn’t authorize a strike and he didn’t even know if he would recommend carrying it out. “Only the president can do that.”
“You can get the ball rolling.”
Granger sounded impatient to Bud. “General, I asked you out here to ask you a question — will this operation have the desired effect? Honestly.”
“For Christ’s sake, Bud… What do you take me for? Do you think I’d put my stamp on a plan that wouldn’t work?”
Bud held a hand up, palm toward the general. “Let me rephrase that. Is the effect that is anticipated the one that will really do the most damage?”
The general understood the line now. What would be most effective? “Bud…we can’t create the perfect solution in an imperfect world. It just doesn’t happen that way. The people we’re trying to stop are criminals, plain and simple, and they’ve created their own safe haven where the only way to get them is with an operation like this. I know what you mean, Bud. It is frustrating, but what do you propose we do…nothing? Where would that get us?”
A whine started low and grew louder, rising steadily in volume from the near UH-60 as the rotors started to spin.
“It’s the same as before: We hit them, they react. Back and forth. Back and forth.”
“The eighty-six strike put a crimp in their style,” Granger pointed out.
“Really?” Bud asked, semi-cynically. “Look where we are now. Remember when the Soviets had some diplomats kidnapped in Lebanon some years back? Right around the time we were losing people left and right there. Do you know what they did — unofficially? They let a four-man Spetsnaz team loose with carte blanche. Those responsible for the abductions soon found some of their family members missing, and a few showed up on the doorsteps in pieces. One guy’s uncle had his balls snipped off and shoved in his mouth before they shipped his body home. Pretty, huh?”
The general’s face was covered with a sour expression. “Thanks for the graphics. Are you proposing we do the same? An eye for an eye, before we lose our eye? Let me tell you, you’re sounding awful contradictory considering your lack of enthusiasm for this operation.”
“I am not proposing anything. But I think we could learn something from the Soviet action: They had no more problems in Beirut.”
Granger turned to the helicopter, and then away. Its rotors were turning at speed now, kicking up spray off the wet ground. “Well, I wish things were that simple for us, but they’re not. We’re the Great Satan, remember?”
The NSA laughed. “We always get the best titles.”
“So what do we do?”
“Knowing my feelings, what do you recommend?” Bud asked.
“Let’s get the assets in place and ready.”
One step closer, Bud thought. “All right. Have the 52s ready to launch. I’ll notify the president.” He tossed a polite salute before heading for the helo.
A moment later the Blackhawk jumped skyward and circled to the left, heading back to the White House. Bud looked at his watch. They would soon be paying respects to the slain chief executive. The thought that he was absent bothered him. He had to be at the center of the storm, trying to bring things safely to an end. Really, though, he was an adviser to the chess player who would move the pawns. Some of the moves would be executed soon, which was Delta’s hope. Bud hoped they would get the chance to checkmate the opponent, otherwise any action would seem like vengeance. It might have been that anyway, he realized.
Whatever happened, he would be safe and secure in the nation’s capital. That thought didn’t bother him — it pissed him off.
The AWACS was now west of Gibraltar, following much the same course it had on the way into the Med, loitering slightly above a light weather system that was shrouding the North African coast on the Atlantic side for a thousand miles to the south.
Flight 422 was twenty-nine thousand feet, five thousand below that Sentry tracking it. A pair of F-16 Falcons from Spain stayed ten miles back of the hijacked jet.
“Target is changing course,” the radar controller aboard the AWACS announced. “Coming left.”
“Watch ‘em. Give me a true. Com, let the Falcons know.” The commander sat back. He was a full colonel with thirty years in the service and two wars under his belt. This, however, was an abomination in his eyes. Even wars had rules.
“Target, new course of two-zero-five. I show a slow descent.”
“Cobra flight reports negative five hundred feet per minute,” Com reported.
“Radar, give me a plot.”
“Computing, sir.”
Flight 422 was going somewhere, probably close. For a second the commander thought that it might be going down, but why the turn? No — there was a destination. C’mon, baby, land.
“Cobra flight on track,” Com reported.
“Got it,” the radar controller said. “Sir, target on a track to Tenerife.”
“The Canaries. Com, alert the controllers on Tenerife, and get me a secure channel to the Pentagon.”
Some of the most beautiful paintings ever rendered depicting events and people of early American history adorned the walls of the rotunda, beneath the classically pure Capitol dome. During the country’s infancy, artists saw men and their deeds as subjects that would, and did, convey a sense of the awe felt by all at the birth of a new nation. The scenes were dark, with stem-faced people staring out to the circular room, or off into a distance not in the painting.